The Elk County advocate. [volume] (Ridgway, Pa.) 1868-1883, 1878-11-14


drones on her aunt, in state Of sweet
Inconsistencies but before she has
finished speaking, the man who has un-
Intentionally played eavesdropper has
disappeared. He is late in coming to
tea that night, but when Juliet comes
down from her room, in answer to the
bell, she finds him chatting quite the
same as usual, though she cannot help
noticing that change has come over his
countenance.
There is certain young artist, Rex
Cant by name, only son of one of her
aunt's intimate friends, who has for
some time maze his home with that
worthy lady, and, thanks to his unfail-
| ing fund of conversation, and the ease
that belongs to a society man, tea passes
off comfortably in spite of the abstrac.
| ton of two, for the aunt is still sweetly
serene. As the time for service draws
near, Juliet says: "I think I will not go
out this evening, my head aches" But
Mrs. Gray answers quickly: "Why,
my dear, you forget your solo," She
can't quite understand the expression OF
the minister's face. he almost looks
gratified at her suggestion, but her aunt
will not hear to it, knowing the head
ache to be a subterfuge, SO she goes
away to get ready.
When they leave the door, Rex, not in
the least comprehending her looks and
gestures, goes off dutifully with Mrs.
Gray on his arm, leaving Juliet as usual
to DR.. Speecham. Several times dur
ing the walk she thinks she will intro
| duce the topic that is uppermost in both
their minds, but he guides the converse.
ton so easily and skillfully on other
subjects that she has no opportunity,
and, after all, what can she sayp In
The sermon that evening, notes are dis
carded, and the speaker breaches SER
mon straight from his heart that electri-
fies and touches as none of his rhetori-
cal, fowery discourses have ever done
and, most of all does it touch a sober
girl on the platform behind him, who is
not at all the restless puzzle that she was
in the morning. She makes up her
mind that she will speak to him about
the matter on her way home but,
again the question suggests itself, what
can she say, since she has already told
him, without being asked, that she
didn't love him. She is saved the
trouble of answering, for, after the SER
vice, the conversation is taken up as
skillfully and easily as before, and one or
two beginnings in that direction are
nipped in the bud, so that almost before
she knows it, they have reached the gate,
and he has bidden her a quiet good
night and gone home, just the same as
usual.
Juliet walks slowly up to the house
with many and conflicting thoughts, for,
ike many another girl, she is ct odds
about some things of which she says
title.
She only stops moment in the par.
lor to say, "Auntie, guess I will go
right up to my room and rest my head"
Then she goes on up the broad stair.
case, through the long corridor and into
her room, locks the door and sits down
YEARLY in chair to think. She sets
up an imaginary self on a stool of re-
pentance in front of her and apostro-
phizes it as follows "You little goose
why don't you love that minister? He
is genuinely good man, and there
are mighty few of them" Then she
falls into a reverie, but soon proceeds:
"You ought to be ashamed to care any
thing for Rex Grant you know he don t
care for YOU" Here the other self
grows indignant, and speaks up /: what
of the evening you went boating, and
the walk from Cables hill, and - But
at this juncture she becomes disgusted
with both selves, and rudely interrupts
the dialogue by getting up and taking
off her wrap and hat.
Then she lights the gas and sits reso-
lutely down to read, but after reading
one page over some six times without
the least idea of what it means, she
tosses the book into the farther corner
of the room, turns out the gas again,
raises the low French window and steps
out upon the balcony. 1t has been a
delightful afternoon, and she remem-
bers, as if it were long time ago, the
soft sunshine and swaying shadows |;
but toward dusk the air had grown
oppressive, and now the moon is put out
by clouds that are gathering and scurry-
ing across the sky. She drops wearily
down in a rustic chair, puts her folded
arms on the balustrade, and leaning her
cheek upon them looks out over the lawn
and thinks. The brisk breeze blows over
her face, and lifts her hair, and she
thinks in earnest now; of many an even
ing boating, of walks, and talks, and,
oh, of thousand things and under all,
like the current that bears drifting rose
leaves, flows the fear that this artist who
has grown into all her life so closely will
go out into the world and forget her.
The current of that fear grows strong
er and swifter, until finally she finds
that the breeze, grown to gale, is
moaning around the corner of the house
and in through the open window behind
her with lonesome sound that she can
not bear and she rises impatiently and
shuts the window down and herself out
with the night. She has hardly done
this when a familiar odor greets her
senses, and, presto the scene changes,
for the odor is unmistakably that of
cigar.
She stands perfectly motionless, and
looks down in an opposite direction
from where she has been looking, and
there, pacing up and down the walk
slowly, is her artist, with that masculine
comforter between his lips. There is an
old saying about his satanic majesty,
but she adapts it to the case in hand, as
she thinks in her ignorance, and quotes
to herself, "Think of angels and you
hear the rustling of their wings"
She hardly dares breathe as she
watches this bright being, probably for
fear of frightening him away. But he
walks up and down without even a
glance at the balcony, and presently
she breathes freer, but still she watches
and he walks, and in the meantime the
clouds are growing heavier. Presently