Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1881-12-03
MARGERY.

| home Of sturdy Deacon Gray and his wife among
the Berkshire hills, should have held such
nesting as Margery, might have puzzled our
| modern philosophers to discover.
''She don't seem to favor the Grays nor vet
the Percivals," one gossip had said to another
over her CRADLE ''but handsomer baby
haven't set my eyes on for these thirty years."
Margerys growing maidenhOod had fulfill ed
the fair promise of face and form. 1t was but
faint praise to cal her the prettiest girl Of all
the country side. The quick smiles that dim
pied in her dainty cheeks or broke the delicate
curves of her mobile, scarlet lips, the swift
glances of her dark eyes full Of slumbering fire.
made Of her fresh young face perpetual ''song
without melody" Not the father, whose stern
notions Of fial submission voiceless and abso-
lutte. had received hundred shocks from self
asserted individuality; nor the mother, whose
gentle soul was grieved by her dstaste for the
monotOny Of housewifely duties; nor the
teacher, whose patient hand had closed so often
the open TennysOn Victor Hugo above the
uniearned algebra upon her desk; nor yet the
country lads. who, though boastng of her beauty
were after all more at ease with plain, little
Annie Lee than with Margery.
John Butler looking up at her in the singers
seats ON the Sunday of her 18th BIRTHDAYS he
mad done ever since she was old enough to take
her place-saw as in dream the beautiful
world OF romance and passion asleep in her
heart. waiting for the kiss of the prince." he
Thought, with an unconscious sigh.
Years ago. in her college vacation DAYS. he
made rare friendship with the bright little
hoyden. 1t was he who had fashioned the kites
and the balls and other bOyish toys for which
her dollhouse was disdaned and deserted; he
who had beaten tor her the chestnut bOughs on
the hillside. or initiated her into the stealthy
arts of trout fishing in the mountain brook.
She had grown away from him now; nav.
rather. he confessed to himself with dull pain
in his heart, he had grown away from her. He
was 80 wears old. and the daily employment of
instructng the half-dozen boys whom he was
accustomed to receive for college preparation
made him feel still Older. very quiet and
humble work. but he had chosen it both from
certain felt aptitude for teaching and because he
could not leave his widowed mother quite alone
in the old home to which she chung so fOndly.
Once chosen, however, he was sure to put
into it his best of heart as well as of BRAIN One
may measure the pressure of steam or the
weight of falling water. but not the power of
conscience of one noble human soul. Seeing in
turn the wheel of small and seemingly monOtO-
nous daily duties. we scarcely guess at the inn
nleBse reserve force which, if need were, would
impel to martyrdom.
There stranger at church that day who.
in turn. gazed at Mafgery. She had met him
already at some village merry-making. and knew
ING party which was then laying the route for
the new railway through the neighboring hill
passes. As it Glanced, he had been shown
seat in John Buffers own pew, and striking
contrast was presented by the men standing side
by side and sharing the book of hymns while
Margerys clear soprano rang through the little
church The one whose grave thoughtful brow
and slightly STOPPING shoulders kept the old
habit of his student life; the other, with figure
bold, erect and full of careless grace. with black
and flashing eyes which seem to speak in turn
all the languages but that of fear and reverence,
and full lips whose easy curl was yelled by the
silken mOustache he wore.
Twice OF thrice Margerys own eyes, encoun-
tefIng those OF the new conner, dropped sud-
denly. and a heightened color crept into her
cheeks. John Butler saw it, and hated himself
for the sudden aversion he felt for the man at
his side. What property had he in Margery that
he should resent the tribute of admiration which
none could choose but render to so fair a face
Yet vague presentment of evil, from which,
strive as he might he could not eliminate an
unreasonable sense of personal loss made him
unquiet as he walked hOmeward when the SER
vice was over His heart was none the lighter
to see that young Wilde. presurning on his pre-
viOus introduction to Margery had Overtaken
her and was walking at her side. bending with
chivalrOus grace as he talked. while smiles and
bushes chased each other over her face.
1t was the beginning of a sad summer for
John Butler There were no truths so power
ful In their final self-assertion as those which
we have persistently striven to hide even from
ourselves. 1t was not long before he knew,
past denial. that with all the strength Of his
mature manhood he loved Margery Gray and
that. alas. whatever faint hope he had uncon-
sclously cherished. despite the disparity of age
and temperament. of some day winning her to
| himself. was fast fading into the air.
Allan Wilde had so far disarmed Deacon Gray's
distrust as to be welcome visitor at the farm
house. Evening by evening ne sat with Margery
in the grape arbor. and the light breeze waited
the sound of gay talk and happy laughter
through the open window of John Buffers
study. Margerys beauty blossomed in those
days like that lovely cactus flower which opens
in single night. Her unframed Imagination
invested her lover with all heroic attributes
The stories he told her of adventures met in the
practice OF his profession in remote, half-settied
districts. OF encounters with hostile land
owners who disputed even by force of arms the
right of railway passage across their SOIL sound
ed to her like the widest dreams of romance
She could scarcely believe that so brilliant and
daring represent ative of the great world out
side could bring the treasure of his love to
little country girl whose life was bounded by
her native Mills.
John Butler watched the young man narrowly
He had the narrow nobility of nature which
would have made him able to rejoice in Margery's
happiness even at the price of his own pain,
could he have felt that he resigned her to a
worthy rival He had learned that Allen was
we'll connected in his distant home. but nothing
uennite Oh his personal character beyond q GER
tain reputation of careless living. Yet all the
more. as the weeks went by, he felt that Margery
was building her life hopes upon the treacherous
sand of an untrue and vacillating nature. Pos
sibly he was neither wholly right nor wrong in
his Judgment. Wilde had the dual tempera-
ment; magneticaily responsive to external
influences, he was good and bad by turns. When,
with just perceptible mist of tears dimming
the brightness OF his eyes, he would say to
Margery. Darling you little know what my life
has been. l am not worthy of you. but you
shall make me what you WILL he was, perhaps,
for that time, as thoroughly himself as when far
away. amid crowd of reckless companions. he
had drained the dangerous glass or sung the
bacchanalian song.
He left her in the first days of autumn, with
the golden rod beaming in the valleys and the
scarlet sumach flaming on all the hills Mar
gery's face was bright through her tears with
perfect hope and trust as she babe him good
bye. Was he not to come again at Christmas
time? And then. if all was well, they would
never be parted more
Gay, tender letters came to her as the first
week went by; their loving words singing them
selves over in her heart like the carol of spring
birds Almost imperceptibly change crept
/ over them-a tone of trouble. half-reckless dis
content, which yrieyed her SOTely though il