Perrysburg journal. (Perrysburg, Wood Co., O. [Ohio]) 186?-1965, 1880-11-05

|
proach, as though she accused herself secret
ly Of wronging her brother and profaning his
tomb In allowing more cheerful thoughts to
blunt the edge of her bereavement. lie re-
marked also that her eyes were often red
from weeping. There sometimes mingled
with her remorse plain resentment toward
himself. AT such times she would hardly
speak to him, and the slightest gayety or
even cheerfulness on his part was received
as downright heartessness. He made a
practice, therefore, Of Withdrawing at once
whenever he found her in this frame of
| mind.
one day they had been sitting long to-
gether. She had appeared unusually con-
tent, but had spoken little. The struggle in
her heart had perhaps worn itself out for the
current Of life and hope which was bearing
her back into the sunshine.
Putnam stopped talking abruptly, but
presently said, " You have not asked me for
| your flChsias''
She stood still and held out her hand for
them.
81 thought you might be meaning to let
me keep Them" said Putnam. His heart
beat fast and his voice trembled as he con-
tinued: Perhaps you thought that what
said a while ago was said in Joke, but |
mean it in real earnest"
"Mean whatY" she asked, family.
"Don't you know what meanp he said,
coming nearer and taking her hand. "Shall
tell you, darlingp'
"Oh, please don'tl oh, 1 think know.
Not here-not now. Give me the flowers, -
she said, disengaging her hand, "and will
put them on Henry's grave"
He handed them to her and said, 81 won't
go on now il it troubles you; but tell me
iirst-l am going away to morrow, and shan't
be back till October-shal / find you here
then, and may | speak thenW
81 shall be here till winter"
"And may speak thenp'
ayes"
"And will you llstenH"
eyes,
"Then l can wait"
They moved on again along the cemetery
walks. Putnam felt an eXultation that he
| could not suppress. In spite of her lam
| guage, her face and the tone of her voice
had betrayed her. He knew that she cared
| for him,
On the morrow he was to start for the
mountains. He visited the cemetery in the
morning, but Miss Pinckney was not there
! He did not know her address, nor could the
gatekeeper inform him; and in the afternoon
he set out on his journey with many misgiy-
| ings.
1t was early October when Putnam re-
turned to the city. He went at once to the
cemetery, but on reaching the grave his
heart sank at the sight of bunch of wither-
ed flowers which must have lain many days
upon the mound. The blossoms were black
have changed her mind and gone South al
readyP he asked himself
There was new sexton in the gatehOuse,
who could tell him nothing about her. He
wandered through the grounds, looking for
the old woman with the watering-pot, but
the season had grown cold, and she had
probably ceased her gardening operations
for the year. He continued his walk be-
yOnd the marshes. The woods had grown
rusty and the sandy pastures outside the
city were ringing with the incessant creak of
grasshoppers, which rose in clouds under
his feet as he brushed through the thin
grass. The blue-curl and the life everlast-
ing distilled their pungent aroma in the au-
tlImn sunshine.
Soon after arriving at the hills he had
written to Miss Pinckney long letter of eX-
plantations and avowals, but he did know the
number Of her lodgings, or, oddly enough,
even her Christian name, and the letter had
been returned to him unopened. The next
month was one of the unhappiest in Put
nam's life. On returning to the city, thor
oughly restored in health, he had opened an
office, but found it impossible to devote
himself quietly to the duties Of his profess
sion. He visited the cemetery at all hours,
but without success. He took to wander
ing about in remote quarters and back
streets of the town, and eyed sharply every
female figure that passed him in the twi-
| light, especially if it walked quickly or wore
veil. lie slept little at night, and grew
restless and irritable. He had never contided
| his experience even to his mother: it seemed
| to him something apart.
| One afternoon toward the middle of No.
| vember he was returning homeward weary
| and detected from walk in the suburbs.
His way led across an uninclosed outskirt
of the town which served as common to
the poor people Of the neighborhood. 1t
was traversed by score Of footpaths, and
| frequented by goats, and by ducks that dab
bled in the puddles of rain water collected
in the hOllOws. Halfway across this open
tract stood what had formerly been an old
fashioned country house, now converted into
a soap boiling establishment. Around this
was a clump of old pine trees, the remnant
of grove which had once flOurished in the
sandy soil. There was something in the des
olation of the place that t1attered Putnam's
mood, and he stopped to take it in. The air
was dusk, but embers of an angry sunset
| burned low in the west. A cold wind made
sound in the pine-tops like the beating of
surf on distant shore. A flock of little
winter birds flew suddenly up from the
ground into one of the trees, like flight of
gray leaves whirled up by gust. As Put
nam turned to look at them he saw, against
the strip of sunset along the horizon, the
slim figure OF girl walking rapidly toward
the opposite side of the common. His heart
gave great leap, and he started after her
on run. AT a corner OF the open ground
the figure vanished, nor could Putnam de-
eide into which of two or three small streets
she had turned. He ran down one and up
another, but met no one except a few labor
ers coming home from work, and finally
gave up the quest. But this momentary
glimpse produced in him new excitement.
He felt sure that he had not been mistaken /;
he knew the swift, graceful step, the slight
form bending in the wind. He fancied that
he had even recognized the poise and shape
of the little head He imagined, too that
| H. h,1 ., IL,
had some reason for avoiding him. For a
week or more he haunted the vicinity of the
common, but without result. December
was already drawing to an end when he re-
ceived the following note:
DEAR Mr.. PUTNAM: You must forgive me
for running away from you the other evening
! am right-am not?-in supposing that you
saw and recognized me. 1t was rude in me
not to wait, bat had not courage to talk
with any one just then: Perhaps | should
| have seen YOU before Mt the cemetery-if you
| still walk there-but have been sick and have
| not been there for long time. / was only
| out for the first time when saw you last FRI
| day. My aunt has sent for me, and am going
| South in few days. i shall leave directions
to have this posted to you as soon as am
| gone.
| Ipromised to be here when you came back
! and write this to thank YOU for your kind
| interest in me and to explain why / go away
| without seeing you again. think that know
| what you wanted to ask me that day that we
| went to the green house, and perhaps under
| happier circumstances / could have given
| you the answer which you wished. But
| have seen so much sorrow, and am of such a
| gloomy disposition, thatI am not tit for cheer
| ful society, and know you would regret your
| choice.
| shall think very often and very gratefully
| of You, and shall not forget the words on that
| little German baby's grave stone. Good by
| IMoGEN PINCKNEY.
Putnam felt stunned and benumbed on
first reading this letter. Then he read il