The Cincinnati daily star. [volume] ([Cincinnati, Ohio]) 1875-1880, 1879-03-10
AN ODD STORY.
Cincinnati, March 3, 10.

harsh supp ement--the news of his per
| idy.
This was official, SO to speak; sealed b,
his dying lips.
Tell Winnie the truth" he said; "teI
her the treacherous part / have beeI
playing, that she may shed no tears fo
me-"
1t was the old story bsence, a faire
face, had broken former ties. Had Har
Whitney lived, he would have been wors,
than dead to me.
A shock, bewilderment, and then
would not believe; l clung defantly t.
the memories that sanctiiied my dead
What more natural? On the one hand
the living letters only few weeks old
on the other, a strangers story, unsus
tanned by proof.
And yet instinctively | felt it true
Standing before me, with arms haughtily
folded, with eyes flashing beneath my
suspicion, Philip Barringer was not a mar
to disbelieve. With his proud answer
my last hope vanished. BitterlyI looked
up at him, bitterly down at my mourn.
ing robes.
"You might have spared me this"
murmured; "but for you | would have
never known"
Ere | finished his hand had closed on
mine; he answered, hurriedly:
at is not right that a woman should
honor false lover, even though he be
dead. You will come to forget Hart
Whitney, to smile at his pertidy. There
are"
He paused, abruptly dropping the
theme.
"My views do not matter"-I would
never have known his voice for Philip
Barringer's, it grew so soft and low-"be-
lieve me, | never meant to tell you. |
have acted to day from an impulse can
not too much regret; because to you |
must always be the bird of ill-omen,
coming only to cause you pain"
He left no room for answer. Swiftly
| heard his footsteps receding from me
forever, thought, gratefully. Philip
Brringer was right; he was a bird of i'll
omen, bringing only pain to me. 1t was
relief to have him drop out of my
life.
would forget Hart Whitney, | would
come to smile at his perfidy. Philip Bar
ringer was a poor prophet; that might
be. Nevertheless [ pondered: Not to
me, but to the fair girl in the Indias be-
longed the sanctifying memories, the
heritage of tears. And so | brought the
letters the dark lock, the miniature
upon which | dared not look, and | made
of them funeral pile, watching with
stole countenance till it dwindled down
to ash.
And 50 gladly l would have buried
memory but i'll vain; my love for Hart
Whitney had been too strong, too abiding,
to die with his perfdy; aid ii tioGg ugh aa;. aa;.y
my faith grew in Philip Barringer's
story, it was but 70 wound deeper the
poor heart unto which love was doubly
dead,
As ustal, mans falsity wrought it's
work; | grew skeptical, distrustful; there
was henceforth no truth, no beauty in
life for me. Moreover, there was dissat-
isfaction; | had lost woman's hopes, a
woman's mission. The still life of
womanhood lost its charm for me.
ildNt NOlhJ IL
tered little, 50 | was saved from tor
pidity.
In various ways l sought it, but fate
seemed contrary; there was no opening
for me. So | pondercd wearily one
morning as | unfolded the county pa
per, when suddenly my eyes met an ad-
vertsement. 1t read:
"Mrs. Ethbert Thornc desires a COVER
ness, Box %, Wabash"
| had grasped vainly after similar
straws, but this time my application
proved successful, and week later
found me whirling away to the distant
kingdom wherein was to rule.
1t was at the close Of a dull, drizzly
day that reached Wabash. Drearily
enough stepped upon the PLATFORM and
stood in the dim light, waiting to be rec
ognizcd.
"My brother will meet you," had writ
ten Mrs. Ethbert Thorne. What would
he be like? What would be my first i'm
pressions of the household of Sunny
bank?
| / had not long to speculate for pres
entity my wraps were taken from me,
was conscious of tall man beside me
speaking words which the wild Shrek o
the engine sunk into nothingness. Thel
| took the arm offered me, and wen
where the carriage stood.
Was | dreaming? Had | seen a vision
in the dim light? Mechanically | en-
tered the carriage, mechanically mad
room for the one who was to follow Inc
But the figure without did not enter
the door closed, and crisp voice said:
"Drive on, Peters; / will walk"
This time there was no mistakine
there was but one such voice in m,
memory, and that was Philip Barring
er's.
"My brother will meet you" had writ
ten Mr., Ethbert Thorne. Il am livin!
on his estates she had previously ex
planned. This, then, was Philip Bar
ringers sister, and | was going to hi
+, home.
With the man whom had rejoiced t.
see dropping from my life forever, / wa
destined to pass months in the intimacy
of his own hearth. So fate had ordered
and nationally must abide.
But fate seemed hard. | had ncvel
been able to forgive Philip Barringer
my bitterness had grown toward hin
with the days. He might have spareC
me Hart Whitney's perfdy; but for him
might be only woman mourning deaC
lover, not the wreck was
He was always the bird of ill-omen
bringing pain to me. He knew of my