The Wellington enterprise. [volume] (Wellington, Ohio) 1867-188?, 1882-03-29
SHADOWS on THE WALL.

SHADOWS On THE WALL.
"Come inn -- a
She gives the permission to enter, in
o low, hurried voice, looking up from
her open writing-desk upon the table,
across which her arm is laid. There is
o newspaper laid there, too-the folded
page blistered as with tears. .s Died, at
.Summerield -" But those tears
dried, and there are none now in the
weary eyes that lift themselves from
that blotted line, and turn wistfully
upon the opening door.
:" You have letter for me, Nancyp'
ssPlease, Miss Gray, it some one
But the slip-shod little maid-of-all-
work Is cut short in her speech by that
some one from behind putting her
gently aside from the door and shutting
It upon her, as he entered. Some one
q man, who has removed his hat in COM
ing forward, and on whose face the
lampiight falls, as he stands on the
hearth-rug opposite Miss Gray.
His face is full of eager life, but she
Is looking up at him as if she saw a
ghost. Her hand shakes so, resting on
the paper, that the rustling draws his
eyes to it. He comes step nearer and
puts his hand down firmly on hers, as
he glances al the lines just above.
g. Died at Summerfield' '-Bessy, do
you take me for ghostP''
She cannot speak. The color is steal
ing back into her lips, and they tremble
apart. but no words come. He says,
trying to speak lightly, for her face
alarms him: -aS
.s You did not know that there were
two of the name. Myfather's house at
Summerfield seemed to fix it on me. 1t
was my cousin, John Hesketh. Poor
fellow, death was such happy release
to him from his wearisome illness. that
he would not grudge its having brought
me some good 1t was your letter of
coincidence to Mrs. Hesketh, .Bessy,
which showed me where to find you,
after all these weary years"
The color has died ont of her face as
suddenly as it flashed into it. The fut-
tering hand under his is drawn away.
and folds itself with the other, tightly,
on the edge of the desk.
't You left Mrs. Hesketh very well,
hope" -. .saesa
" Well, that is hardly to be expected
of a young widow, Bessy." -.s
Ill do not understand"
That you were as mistaken in the
marriage as in the death. How could
you be, BessyP'
She is quivering from head to foot.
flushing and quivering. as she says,
brokenlys z2
{" How should 1 not be? Some one
sent me paper long ago, with the
marriage at Summerfield marked in it.
How could i knowP And when read
the name in the paper again, last
week.
'You wrote your little letter to that
imaginary wife of mine, telling her that
you had known me years ago. and that,
seeing the name, you were so grieved
for her, and could not refrain, though a
stranger to her, from telling her so. 1t
was a sweet little letter; she, poor little
widow, showed it to me, and was not
quite pleased with me that / took it
away from her. have it here. Bessy,
If read between the lines-''
She catches her breath. 1@
al wrote nothing she night not have
read if she had been your wife,
'.Bettcee'1 the lines, said, Bessy.
From them she would never have
guessed what the old friendship meant.
But remember it was no friendship; it
was love" f - -zc'22 -
He says the word with his touch upon
her hands again. But she shakes il off;
she has risen to her feet, her grasp
upon the back of her chair, steadying
her. ,
.'If it were.' she says, hurriedly,
'.you never said it SO plainly then, that
you need repeat it now" -
s'You cannot doubt / mean it. You
knew was coming back. And in the
rooapttr,ao ro1,- fotho,- ond x-1r1 ho+I,
suddenly removed, leaving no trace
Bessy,"' with a quick light breaking
upon him, ..it was in that same sum-
mer that my cousin John Hesketh mar
ried; could that have had anything to
do with =
..My hiding mysefP" she supplies,
quietly. 'tNothing."
Hesketh's face changes, as he looks
searchingly at her. But he can
see hers no longer. She has sunk
down again in her chair, her elbows
on the table, her head bent in her
hands He waits moment for her to
speak, to move; when the does not, he
draws back little, and resting his arm
on the mantel, glances round him.
1t is a poor place enough; the lodg-
ing-house exterior, and the slip-shod
maid-of-all- work on the stairs, had not
led him to expect much. But yet he
had not looked for such bare poverty
as this-the uncarpeted floor, the small
table, the two or three hard chairs.
Turning slightly for fuller view, he
catches a glimpse through half-open
door of an inner room, comfortably al
though still plainly furnished. He
draws a breath of relief. That inner
room is a strong contrast to the beauti-
full home which had once seemed so
aptly to surround her; but still, he is
relieved to think her days are not all
spent in this baroness.
And then his gaze goes back to her.
While he looked into her face, he was
not able to heed her dress or her sur
roundings; but now he sees that the
deep mourning she wears is of the very
cheapest, although fresh as if recently
put on. His heart is stirred within him
1t the sight He says in a low voice;
.Died three weeks ago."
This she answers, not uncoyering her
face. .-r sr.f -lsi s'ir.ss =
BE says, after another pause:
sand removed here afterwardPn
"No. Long, long ago. When first.
we left the dear old home. The room
in there was his; he was never able 70
leave it after first brought him here,
until he left it for his grave" s,
"And this was your room. Bessyf"