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


the freight fell upon her face. With an imper-
ious gesture she grasped the newspaper in her
fathers hand, and before he had gained strength
to detan her by word or sign, she had gone
through the long hall. up the stairs, and they
heard the key turn in the lock of her own door.
If Margery could have died that night she
would have accounted it the sweetest boon that
fate could hold in stere but life was too strong
In her young veins. Rebel as she might against
the cruel fortune which had befallen her. she
had no choice but to arise the next morning to
the first Of the new days which seemed to
stretch in endless procession before her until
her very brain reeled dizzily. One purpose only
was clear in the chaos Of her mind-to let no
one speak to her Of her dead lover. There
should be silence since there were DO kind words
to say. With fierce tenderness she wrapped
his memory in the garment of her love which he
had SO dishOnored. She made for him hum
dred excuses to her own heart, but none the
less with the pitiless truthfulness which was a
part OF her nature she knew that the mere fact
of his death was to her less than nothing beside
the wreck of her broken idol
AS the long winter wore away and spring and
summer covered the hills once more with bud
and blossom Deacon Gray grew impatient that
the color did not return to Margery scheeks and
the old light to her eyes. His stern nature
might bear with the first shock of grief and dis
may, but he felt it now high time she should for
get all vain regrets for an unworthy object. In
consciously his manner betrayed his disapproval
and in proportion her own grew cold and re-
served. From her mothers weaker nature she
had never looked for helpful and comprehend
ing sympathy.
Only John Butler, with the keen insight of
love, read the poor chld's heart. He had given
her little more than an occasional smile of pleas
ant greeting in all these months, yet his whole
soul yearned towards her in an agony OF pity
ing tenderness. Slowly and tremblingly the
hope dawned in his heart that she might be won,
to begin with him new life, in which his great
love ShOuld atone n her for the crupf Suffarinr
she had endured.
Allan Wilde had lain for eighteen months in
his dishOnOred grave when Deacon Gray called
Margery one day to speak with her alone.
''Child, he said, II have something to say to
you which deeply concerns your welfare. John
Butler has spoken to me of you to-day. He
would scarcely expect me to repeat to you what
he said but | have thought best to do So that
you may know beforehand my opinion in refer
ence to the subject. He has asked my permits
sion to seek you for his Wife"
Margery started violently.
"His wife!'' she cried with bitter emphasis
"Does John Butler think can-'' She stop
ped suddenly. and wave of color swept across
her cheeks.
Her father had arisen.
"Margery." he said. in voice tremulous with
passion, 'listen to me! On the hillside yonder
are the graves of three of my children. Better
for the only one left me that she were laid beside
them than to waste her life in wicked repining
"
would be serving out the penalty of his crime
in the pententiary."
He paused, startled at the calm whiteness of
her face. She put up her hand, and her lips
moved for moment without a sound. At last
she said:
Father, it is enough! Send John Butler to
mel"
for YOU"
''Then will 60 to him." she answered. turn
wi cfI fn ho
door.
John Butler sat alone in his schoolroom. There
was quick tap on the door, and scarcely wait
ing for his answer, Margery entered. Startled
at her palOr, he would have led her to a seat
but she gently resisted.
''JOhn," she said, still standing before him,
''my father has told me what you said to him.
He told your
'He told me. Yes, it was better so,' she an
swered. al have come to tell you that l will
marry you if you wish; but there is one thing
you should have known. l have never cared
for any one in that way but-but-' The strain
had been too great She sunk into chair and
burst into storm of passionate weeping.
He bent over her in an agony of self-reprOach.
soothing her like little child.
"My child, know. know" he said. Then
when her sobs were still
''Did you come to me of your own will, Mar
gerry ?"
"Of my own will"
comfort you some time. may be. teach you to
love me as I-Oh, my darling, l have loved you
always"
Il will try" she answered
He took the little. cold hands in his own and
kissed them reverently, in seal of their strange
betrOthal.
He had other dreams-this strong, self-con-
tanned man-of the little bride that slowly but
surely won might creep some time with smiles
and bushes to his shelterng breast, but he put
fhou nv nd oil Snl fh6h nnIy Of
the unmarked page.
His home had been very lonely since his moth
er's death, and Margery herself seemed to wish
for no delay; so in the early autumn they were
married.
With fond secrecy he had fitted all the belong
ings OF her room to her special tastes and fancies
The cOlOrs she chose. the books and flowers she
loved best were there. He had pictured to him.
self over and over how the old sunshine would
Tighten her face at the sight.
You are very kind she said simply; only
that.
IL am too impatient, he thought, crushing
his disappointment. Il must wait; she must
have time"
How patiently he waited God only knows
Her smallest wishes were consulted: she was
irked by no unaccustOmed care; she dwelt in an
atmosphere of watchful care and gentIeness
Yet he looked vainly for anything beyond the
quiet, grateful response which might have been
made by an hOnOred guest. At rare intervals
calm, and he found her sometimes, after long
walks by her herself, with traces of tears upon
her cheeks. He ceased the small caresses which
she received 80 passively. fearing to give her
pain. His love never wavered-but slowly
slowly, hope was dying from his heart.
She came to him one day and stood silently
beside the desk where he was correcting pile
of Latin exercises. Suddenly, with her old i'm
pulsive motion, she swept her hand across the
papers.
care you never tired of it all?" she cried
''This ceaseless monOtony-the boys with their
creaking boots and blotted exercises and end
less cOnjugatOns. Does this life satisfy you?
Do you want nOthing?'
Long afterward she remembered the pain in
his face. He felt for a moment that he must
open his arms and cry to her, .'YOu-you-it is
you l want! Comet" But he only wiped his
pen carefully and laid it down.
you are tired. my child" he said-he always
called her my child now-''I have been selfish
in keeping you to my dull ways We must have
some change for you. Stay! I have the very
plan. You remember my Aunt Olivia Rande,
whom you met here with her daughter three
years ago! had letter from her this morn
ing from her country home on the seashore.
She asked Us to come to her for long visit.
cannot well leave. you know but will send
you for both of us. Would you like it. Mar
geryS'