Middletown transcript., 1881-07-01


Mrs. Lindsey was perfectly over
whelmed with astonishment and dis
may. She said but little; but her
deeds spoke.
The next morning, Ethel was worse.
There had been several cases of small
pox in the neighborhOod, and the doc
tor who was at first called in, young
village practitioner, with no overstock
of brains, or education, pronounced it
a case Of smallpox. He did not tell
Ethel so, but told Mrs. Lindsey and
Gerald. And the consequence was,
that within an hour of the time he
communicated the knowledge to them,
they were on their way to the station.
They, each of them, left a letter for
Ethel, which she read at once.
Mrs. Lindsey said, she could not think
of remaining longer, to be a burden upon
her, as she had no means to support
even herself but she should always
love her, she would always seem to her
like beloved daughter but duty
seemed to demand, that she should de-
part at once, etc.
Gerald's letter was more poetic and
flowery. He cursed his evil star more
bitterly than ever He denounced his
fato-he was wretched, despairing but
his business called him back again to
the East at once he must go. He en-
ded by ayowing, that the star of his
fate was setting in blackness and gloom.
But he knew the good angels would be
with her-he knew they would watch
over the lot of one so innocent and
good.
They, neither Of them, mentioned
her illness. That was too awkward a
subject for them to converse upon
gracefully, SO they ignored it.
Poor Ethel! She had fallen upon
evil days, indeed. Her old nurse stayed
with her and was faithful and true,
and waited upon her devotedly. But,
as the days went on, and she lay burn
ing up with fever and raving with de-
lirium she thought, i'll the intervals of
consciousness, that she sometimes felt
upon her burning forehead a softer
hand than good aunt Chloe's, a lower,
tenderer voice-the tenderest and most
loving voice in the whole world sooth
ing her, calling her pet names.
But, when consciousness returned, no
one was in the room but aunt Chloe,
and her daughter Fanny, the chamber
maid. Aunt Chloe was speaking, in
low tone.
''To think that Mrs. Lindsey and
her son, after pretendin' to think so
much of Miss Ethel as they did, should
run off and leave her, because they
thought it was smallpox so afraid of
llesila, their precious lives inst as if it
would be a loss precious little loss it
would be to anybody. Never waited to
see her, or see if they could do anything
to help her-or make any arrange
ments for her to have any care they
didn't seem to care whether she was
left to die, OF not, if they only got
away
AS Ethel lay, and heard these words,
a great tide of remorse and dispair
swept over her. To think of the utter
worthliness of those who had made
such loud professions of attachment,
and then to think of the true, tried de-
votion of the patient heart she had
sighted. Oh to see him once more
only to see him, to ask him to forgive
her; to tell him that she loved him,
always loved him, only
her weak heart had been led away by a i.
slight fancy.
But he was far away from her and
in distant land was learning to for
get her, nay, to despise her. She would
never see him again; or, if she did, he
would have ceased to love her; he
would regard her with Indifference, as
a stranger.
Tears, which she was too weak to
wipe away, rose to her eyes, and slid
silently down her white, wasted cheeks.
And now, aunt Chloe and Fanny,
thinking she was asleep, went down to
their supper.
Did she hear a light step enter the
next room, as their heavier footsteps
passed away? No; it was only her
fancy. She had thought it sounded
like the step she should never hear
again. She was alone. The twilight
shadows were gathering in the large,
quiet room. She was alone she should
always be alone.
All the while she had lain there,
burning up with the fever, she had
been tormented by snatches of poetry,
persistently eehoing through her brain.
Sometimes it would be only line or
two, echoing over and over again, and
sometimes long poems, learned when
she was school girl. An now, as she
lay there, in the twilight shadows, she
could almost fancy her fever was re-
turning again, for the words of an old
song she had often sung rang so per-
sistently through her memory-words,
that, when she was well and happy,
when he was with her, who was tender
and true,'' had oftentimes filed her
eyes with tears, so well had the poet
painted the sick anguish as a broken
and remorseful heart:
Gould you come back to me, Douglas,
Douglas,
In the old likeness that know,
would be so patient and loving, Douglas
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
" Never scornful word should grieve you;
I'd smile as sweet as the angels do
Sweet as your smile on me shone ever.
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
" Oh, to call back the days that are notI
My eyes were blinded, your words were few;
a m haci6n m TF1aI 10 aho fi1Vva