Weekly Chillicothe crisis. (Chillicothe, Livingston Co., Mo.) 1878-19??, 1882-11-30
SANTWOOD.

wv ltuln' iHuu Will DC HOHc lDO lOIB
in which to forget this wretchcd affair,
and accustom myself to some of the
stern realities of life. | find that fate
has not decreed my pathway to be one
of roses
TGe speaker was reclining careless
ly upon n luxurious sofa amid such
elegant surroundings that one might
naturally wonder what there could
be in his experience to tincture his
thoughts Of the future with so much
gloom.
A finc-looking man of middle age,
seated near him, was the person with
whom he was ostensibly conversing,
though girl, sitting at the piano u
little farther off, felt that the vein of
bitterness underlying the words was
meant especially for her.
Her hands were wandering half idly
ever the keys, playing in softcst,
sweetest fashion that rythmical, half
mournful air, Upon the Danube Riv-
er." Deep, rich bass chords dropped
now and then into the low-dripping,
silvery melody, and the player hummed,
rs if TO her own thoughts, in low, SYM
pathetic tone, the refrain:
''ll nccr forget that night in June
Upon the Danube River
She, at least, did not wonder why the
speaker looked upon the dark side Of
life lust then, for she knew. She knew
what all the world did, that the proud
name of SantwOod had been dragged
in the dust bya brothers crime. Forg-
cry and suicide had again furnished
tho greedy press with sensational col
umns and blazing headlines, whose
every glaring, significant letter cut
into the sensitive heart OF Philip, like n
two-cdged sword.
But the listener at the piano knew
that q sharper pain than even that die
tqted the hopeless words. She rcmcm-
bercd scene in the library but few
hours past, when he had told her Of
his resolve to leave his native land,
and, in the weakness of the moment,
had broken down and confessed the
love which he had meant, now since
disgrace had overtaken him, to keep II
secret to the end. For what right had
he, he bitterly asked himself, to offer
his stained name for any woman's ac-
CcptanceP -,
But if it is true that "murder will
OUT so will love when it is thrilling
in every nerve, when every hope and
interest in life is identified with its dear
object.
''Yet | am not sorry that you know
it. after all, ~ he had said. 'LittIe fit
ted as am now 10 offer my love to one
so pure and proud as you, it would have
been hard for me to have borne this
homeless love in silence. A week ago
could have told you all of this without
one thrill of shame or sclf-rcproach.
But then, not dreaming of any coming
trouble, was content to wait until you
had seen the world and learned youl
own heart thoroughly, What your an
swer might have been then | do not
know, but at least should have felt
myself the peer of any other who might
sue for the honor of your hand; Will,
now"
He broke off abruptly with Il heavy
sharp drawn breath, and paced tho
floor with the air of some proud cagcC
animal chafing bitterly against the bars
that held him.
Suddenly he paused before her as she
stood, white and silent, leaning agains
themantcl for support, and, taking hel
hand in both of his, said, with passion
ate pleading:
"But, after all, it is not my sin, Mar
guerite. You are proud, know; bu
will you turn from me for mybrother'
faultp If you can love me ever so lit
lie, will you not tell me so, and let M
take that knowledge with me to com
fort me in my long exile? ] will wal
wait until this trouble has been for
gotten; until / can do something Il
redeem"
"Do not ask me-" she interrupted
shudderingly; and then she turned
and, looking straight into his anguish
ed, despairing eyes, in q voice tina
sounded cold and harsh in her effort t.
repress all feeling, she said: "PhiliI
Santwood, you spoke truly just now
am proud-too proud, perhaps; but
stainless name is everything to me.
am poor myself, but my name is with
out blot or blemish, and, while ar
sorry for you, ! can not"
But her voice died away in silence
To save her life she could not have pu
the sentence which she was about I
speak into words, with those sternl
compressed lips and those dry, yearr
ing eyes before her.
"At least tell me-" he pleaded, husl
ny, could you have loved me had
not been for-thisp"
II can not tell what might hav
been,n she answered, turning wearil
away. ~ only know what is. Thi
is painful subject, Mr.. Santwoot
Let it end, please"
She meant to be gentle in name
and speech. But the great struggle
cost her to speak calmly seemed
crystalize both into the hardness {
marble, and when she turned away
Philip read only pride-nothing br
pride and coldness-in her voice and |
tho pale, set features. He saw nethin
of the aching heart behind that masl
So, as she sat there with the low
sweet music dropping from the key
not a word or sigh of Philip Santwood
escaped her; not the least sigh c
sound of that unhappy evening but in
pressed itself upon her memory, an
months afterward came back to he
mingled always with the sad, swct
measures of that song
The next day he was gone. Ma
euerite was conscious OF II terribl
loneliness, a bitter loss, when the fin
manly figure had disappeared entirel
from her view, when the fair, prou
head and the handsome face whicl
until the past week, had been so full (
sunny happiness, had gone forevt
from her home. She might hay
brought back the brightness to it wit
only the one word "hope," yet 81
could not bring herself to speak it.
She was proud, far too proud.th
beautiful girl--of her stainless old fan
ily name with which no shade OF di
yraoe was ever blent.
As the months wore on Margqeri