The Columbian. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1866-1910, 1879-05-23
Select Story.
AN ODD STORY.

ASK you W pelleVe nOtnlng L simply
tell you the truth
My last hope vanished. Bitterly looked
up at Philip Barrnger, bitterly down at my
mourning robes
Twice only had | seen this man three
weeks since, when he brought the news of
my lovers death to-day, bringing-a harsh
supplement-the news of his perfdy.
Tell Winnie the truth he said tell her
the treacherous part l have been playing,
that she may shed no tears for me-
1t was the old story--absence and fairer
face, had broken former ties. Had Hart
Whitney lived, he would have been worse
than dead to me.
shock, bewilderment, and then / would
not believe; I clung defanty to the men,
ories that sanctfied my dead. What more
natural On the one hand, the living let
ters only few weeks old on the other, a
strangers story, unsustained by proof
And yet instinctively felt it true. Stand
ing before me, with arms haughtily folded,
with eyes flashing beneath my suspicion,
was uOI Il IltIl W ulSUblltN6.
With his proud answer my last hope vanish-
ed. Bitterly looked up at him, bitterly
down at my mourning robes.
You might have spared me this, | muir.
INJURED but for you l would have never
known
Ere finished his hand had closed on mine;
he answered, hurridly:
1t is not right that a woman should hon
or false lover, even though he be dead.
You will come to forget Hart Whitney, to
smile at his perfidy. There are
He paused, abruptly dropping the
theme.
My views do not matter'-I would never
have known his voice for Philip Barringers
it grew so soft and low believe me, | nev
er meant to tell you. | have acted o.day
from an impulse I cannot too much regret ;
because to you l 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 Barringer was
right he was bird of ill-omen bringing
only pain to me. 1t was a reiefto have him
drop out of my life.
would forget Hart Whitney. l would
come to smile at his perfdy. Philip Bar
ringer was poor prophet; that might be.
Nevertheless, ponder Not to me, but to
the fair girl in the Indies belonged the sanct-
flying memories, the heritage of tears. And
so brought the letters, the dark lock, the
miniature, upon which dared not look, and
l made of .hem funeral pile, watching
with stole countenance till it dwindled down
to ashes.
And so gladly l would have buried mem.
ory, but in vain my love for Hart Whit.
ney had been too strong, too abiding to die
with his perfidy and though daily my
faith grew in Philip Barringer's story it was
but to wound deeper the poor heart in which
love was doubly dead.
| As usual, mans falsity wrought its work
l grew skeptical, distrustful there wa,
henceforth no truth, no beauty, in life fol-
me. Moreover, there was dissatisfaction
had lost woman's hopes, a woman's mis-
sion. The still life of womanhood lost it
charm for me. | must have work, action
what it mattered little, so | was saved from
torpidity.
In various ways sought it, but fate seem
ed contrary there was no opening for me
So pondered wearily one morning as un
folded the country paper, when suddenl.
my eyes met an advertisement. 1t read:
Mrs. Ethbert Thorne desires governess
Box %, Wabash
had grasped vainly after similar straws
but this time my application proved success
full, and week later found me whirinl
away to the distant kingdom wherein | wa
to rule.
1t was at the close of dull, drizzy da,
that reached Wabash. Drearily enough
stepped upon the platform and stood in tn
dim light, waiting to be recognized.
My brother will meet you,' had writer
Mrs. Ethbert Thorne. What would he b
like What would be my first impression
of the household at Sunnybank
had not long to speculate, for present.
my wraps were taken from me, l was con
scious of a tall man standing beside me
speaking words which the wild shrek of tn
engine sunk into nothingness. Then | too
the arm offered, and went where the carriag
stood,
Was dreaming Had l seen a viso
in the dim light? Mechanically entere
the carriage, mechanically made room fc
the one who was to follow me.
But the figure without did not enter tn
door closed, and crisp voice said
Drive on, Peters will walk
This time there was no mistaking thel
was but one such voice in my memory, an
that was Philip Barringer's.
My brother will meet you = had write
Mrs. Ethbert Thorne. Il am living on h
estates, she had previously explained. Tn
then, was Philip Barringer's sister, and
was going to his home,
t With the man whom | had rejoiced to 81
dropping from my life forever, was desti
ed to pass months in the intimacy of h
e own hearth. So fate had ordered al
nationally | must abide.
But fate seemed hard. | had never be,
able to forgive Philip Barringer, my bite
ness had grown toward him with the day
He might have spared me Hart Whitney
perfdy but for him might be only W
$ man mourning dead lover, not the wreck
: was.
He was always the bird ofill-omen, brin
irg pain to me. He knew of my comi