Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, 1882-07-06
"'Well, then, since you will have it--yes,

! "'Well, Then, since you Will nave lI-yeS,
marry Ma'mselle Therese.'
"And as he spoke his BRIDES name there
shone in his pale eyes that amorous light ant
CLEAN of triumphant passion that in day
gone by had fallen upon her face in warn
rays, when he stopped to kiss her, or when
beneath the summer shade of trees, they hat
walked hand in hand, talking Of the happiness
| in store for them.
''Down upon the anvil came the stalwar
blow of the great hammer, and, adding dis
courtesy to his cruel words, he turned hi:
back on her, whstling at his work: 1t need
ed but this to break her heart. She left the
door faint and sick with woe, uttering nc
word Of anger, breathing no rash prayer tt
heaven to avenge her cause.
"And yet the vengeance came. The montt
of May broke in upon us fiercely hot. Snow
melted hurriedly on the hills, flooding valley
and meadow as with a sea, and as this driet
in the sun, leaving many sluggish pool
fever fell upon the villages that lay nestled
in the deep glens. 49,,
In the evening Therse Dufrense walked with
her lover, counting the hours to their wed
ding. In the morning she lay on her bed
stricken, raving, dying. Her father sent tol
Antoine, but she did not know him. With
frenzied hands she pushed him from her, and
died raving of some old lover gone for sol
dier, and lying blind and helpless i'll some hos
pital in Ghent.
"And now the blacksmith was marked
man. People cried "A Judgment y and his
forge grew silent and deserted. Meanwhile
Eulalie perished day by day, like flower
whitening in the wind. And whether it was
remorse, or time serving fear, or return OF
love, I know not, but in few short weeks
after Therese's death, Antoine wooed hel
again to be be his wife, and she consented
Thus the priests tale ended, and l, looking
sorrowfully in his face, sat silent, then walked
homeward, musing on many things.
They were married, but l went not to the
wedding. and for many days I shouldered my
basket early and wandered to the deepest and
fartherest glens, sometimes throwing my line
idly in the stream, but oftener sitting on the
bank watching the rpples flow and the rushes
wave.
So a month went by and every evening
when 1 returned and laid down my empty
basket, with a smile that hid sigh, heard
that poor Eulalie was worse.
''She is dying fast, now," said my house
keeper Poor thing she is worn to very
shadow. l saw her yesterday, in the GENE
terry, leaning Oh her husbands arm, choosing
her grave. There were tears on his cheek.
All, he has his share now Of grief as it is fitting
he should have. And I hear they are very
poor. People 60 miles away to another forge
rather than 60 to him."
Poor - | said And there rose up in my
throat so strange a sob that for moment no
other word would come. Then, hiding my
face in shadow, 1 bade her take hastily all
needful things to her.
''No, stay-not to her. Take them to her
mother, and let her take them to her daugh-
ter"
Then, sitting lonely by my wood fire, l
thought bitterly of the empty shadows of this
world, and how strange it was that should
send bread in charity to one Whom-foollsh
dreams II had clothed in satin and jewels
and honored as 4 queen.
A few days further on, when / heard she
would leave her bed no more, there came upon
me silly longing to see her face. After many
thoughts and fightings with my wish l spoke
to her mother on the subject.
II had ever been her FRIEND" l said.
"Might I see her and say farewell %
The mother looked at me with frightened
eyes.
II cannot tell,' she answered. "Antoine
has grown 50 fierce, dare not ask him. Some
how, ever since he knew he must lose his wife,
and she slipped from his grasp into deaths, he
loves her with stronger, tiercer love than ever
in his passionate days he has given to Therese,
and he begrudges every word and look given
to another. lie is jealous even of me-"
And the woman went her way, weeping Bit
terly as she went.
Now I was bitter, indeed. So this coarse
man, who had killed my pretty flower, was her
master in death as in life, and he denied me
even the poor consolation of one last word.
What strange triumph was lis over the lOv-
ing heart he had broken
The next day, with my rod as a pretence. [
climbed a great hilltop and sat among the SOL
itudes of the mountain till faith in Gods good
ness, growing from the peace and stiffness and
beauty of the earth, wrung that drop of bit
terness from out my heart.
Vending my way homeward among the
evening shadows, met the priest.
''Come with me-" he said. "Eulalie has
asked for you''
And now hesitatcd.
81 fear" said, Ito 60. Perhaps my indg-
nation against that man will not hold itself
calmly quiet, even in her presence"
"You will not see him." said the priest
In another moment | was kneelng by her
couch. And if before saw her face 1 had
longed to say, "Could you have loved man
who would have made you lady, and shelter
ed you from the rough wind and cold hand of
poverty and i'll 20 longed no more to utter
such wild and selfish words when her dying
eyes looked gratefully into mine and she thank
ed me humbly for the kindness had done her.
All then | sank down into the depths of hu-
initiation. Kindness! She, an angel just
going to heaven, thanking me, poor worm on
earth, for kindness
What was it? A little food-a little wine.
Great heavens what poor creatures we are,
when we exact gratitude for such puny gifts
-lncn I f4c 1,prf lie fnr
such, many times and oft, are the poor and
dying, though we know it not.
Then she put out her hand to me but / look
ing at her through mist Of tears, did not see
her till her slender fingers touched mine, and
drew me down toward her,
"Forgive Antoine" she whispered, and a
deep blush Suffused her face. II loved him
always never loved but him ~
Then l saw that dream of mine, hidden in
my heart, had reached her, l knew not how,
and thrown shade OF fear and sorrow in her
soul for me.
'God bless you, Eualie - l said 81 for
give him. There is not a shadow of anger in
my heart against him now"
The next day she died. And in the evening,
as was going down to the priests, feeling it
not good for me to be alone, saw lonely
man in the cemetery digging grave. drew
near to him. 1t was Antoine, the blacksmith.
He was digging the grave for Eulalie: his wife.
His face was CHASTITY white and haggard with
many tears, and his stalwart and strong arms
raised the earth and cast it aside, while sobS
rent his bosom, till, trembling in his anguish,
he rested on lis spade and bowed his head OH
his clasped hands.
Then stole away and told the priest what
/ had seen.
eyes" he answered. "Antoine has chosen
this dreadful task as a penance. He would dig
the grave himself, he said, for the heart he
had DrOken.'