Weekly Chillicothe crisis. (Chillicothe, Livingston Co., Mo.) 1878-19??, 1879-09-25

your will, behold me. your son"
lie never spoke Of her again, and
dared not. He never spoke of our mar
rage, and | was as content as if the da.
was named.
LET me lie here OH this messy bank
and look up at your sweet face, ElOise
and be content. Do not talk to me, h
said, and II would have cut off my righ
hand ut his command.
| How quickly the days flew by. At las
I-how can | tell youp My brow grow
hot with indignant bushes as think o
| it, but you will hear of it from unkint
tongues when you return, so let me writ,
1t to you; but before write rememberthis
that never before this time am writin,
OF it, did Arthur utter one word or by tn,
iaintest insinuation do ought that woulC
cause a blush to rise to the fairest, purcst
most virtuous souln the world. We wcrC
sitting by the river one day, at least
was, and Arthur was lying at my feet
reading to me, when suddenly lady
black -browed with compressed lips, stoot
before us. Arthur jumped to his feet.
''Frances!"
DO not speak, sir; so this is your bust
ness that called you away from the wife
you married six months ago"
Great heavens! see her and hear hcl
still.
"This sir. she continued, "the urgent
mercantile business-that is the new
name, suppose, under which men ofyom
kind pay Il visit to their lady friends" "
had nearly tainted before; now
sprang to my feet, wild with rage
Madam, said, as God hears me, !
never. knew Arthur was married till
now."
"Arthur!" she laughed with dcmoni-
cal intonatlon. Arthur Well, Arthur,
| am through with you; shall leave you
to the care OF your mistress"
She had scarcely said the word, be-
tore-was he so much to blamep-betore
he struck her, and she fell to the ground.
go" he said to me, "this is no place
for you, Go and pray your God to forgive
me-if you can. :"
| was almost too stupifed to obey. How
| arrived home and avoided Aunt Ellen
cannot say, but remember lying on the
floor with my head between my hands,
crying out in dumb sort of way, like
some wounded animal stricken nigh unto
death. | stole out of the house at twi-
light. hoped and feared to meet Arthur,
but | had scarcely gone beyond the garden
gate when he met me.
"Eloise," he began, "can you forgive
me? and not waiting for an answer he
hurried on:
81 was bethrothed to her from my
youth; she was dying, and before she
died she forced me by her dying request
to marry-that woman, at her bedside.
| told my mother Of you; one year before
my meeting you, we renewed the engage.
ment made by my mother and her father.
How should | know then that | would see
you and love you? My mother sent for
me; she raved and swore that she would
curse me ii hcsitated. Does 1T seem i'm
possibleP You did not know my mother:
let that suffice. married, and swore
never to see you again, but your dear face
haunted me day and night, night and day,
Then came your letter Of trust. o, Eloise.
forgive the weak man who could not re-
main away from you! Can you, will you
forgive me?"
God knows | do, Arthur for"
"Eloise!" it was Aunt lIelen's voice
Elolse, forbid you ever to put your feet
over my threshold again; my dead broth.
er's daughter to turn out as you have"
AUNT! Aunt Ellen!" cried, "what
have doncp"
"Done! she shrleked; ask anybody
you meet, ii your own conscience is dullcd
q that puppn4 ,lprgianl -
one word: :" as | stroyc to speak; "your
clothes will he sent to the hotel in an
hours time, and she left me.
"Therc is nothing left us now, Eloise,"
said Arthur nothing but the knowledge
of our own purity. What can we do
Trust yourself to me, dear; We will build
a future in some distant land that shall
be so happy that whoever secs us will
envy us. D."
| do not blush as write that hesitat-
ed. What was there left for me IN all |
this world beside, even if the very thought |
of being with him did not thrill me with |
passionate madness Yes, hcsitated, but |
the memory ofmy mother sprang up be-
tween us, and with cry of agony, tore
myself from his embrace, and ran like Il
hunted deer through the still of the night.
| slept in barn that night-slept did
sayp ! lay there in the hay awake, and |
when the morning broke | stole away like
n guilty thing and walked three miles to
Adamsville; there took the cars and
rode to New York. At last fate befriend.
ed me, | picked up a newspaper by n
passenger, and read an advertisement for
| 1nrlInl. to,ngt tpn,Inrp,,1 /
then thOught-no recommendations
were required, and was engaged; but
the children had been so unruly. no gov
erness would remain, and shc-Mrs. De-
glad to get one, though with
no knowledge of my ability or charac-
ter.
sent for my trunk to be forwarded to
New York, without giving my address. |
have been here nearly two years. | have
never seen Arthur since that night. Mrs.
Devine often talks of him, though, before
mellow he is in Europe with that deceit
full, brazen hua2y, while his poor wife re-
mains here alone.
Let me acknowledge, dear friend, be.
fore close, how wicked still am. Often
when the children are asleep, as they now
are, and the house is oppressive in its
and Mrs. Devine having
gone to party-I think of Arthur alone
IN Europe, sitting idly in the gathering
gloom and thinking OF me. think of the
unjust fate that parted us when we loved
each other so dearly, and wonder if there
be future where we shall be recon-
pensed for all we suffer here-if we are
justified to live under the brand-cating
the dead husks of our own loves, when
we might have been happy had dared.
Am | coward or heroine?