The Brookhaven leader., 1883-04-12

= II
and remuneration. Then she died, leav-
ing ME to the care of a compassionate
world and my uncle. Of him l have
already spoken.
My life dragged on with clogged
wheels. was always at war with
my surroundings. Though too proud to
express it., / had never realized my
ideal of womanhood, or in any way
grown up to my aspirations and dreams.
II / had grown at all it had been
through pain and repression-a fatal
thing always for a warm-hearted,
earnest woman.
NV uncle, Edward Earle, had pro-
cured me the friendship (?) of the lady
in whose house had passed a twelve
month-Mrs. Lucien Granger, distant
cousin of his own. l was an unsalaried
governess or companion, our remote
cousinship being always made available
BY my uncle. 1t was during my resi-
dence with that lady that my fate came
to me. A young nephew of Mrs. Gran
gers came to the hall. He was an ar
fist, young and handsome, and fresh
from four years sojourn in Rome.
need not weary you with the pro-
logue or the epilogue of our love, for
words are so poor to express the heart $
utterance. o golden days! o tender,
passionate nights! o princely heart,
come back to me!
Alan Leighton was the last son of a
high-born family, and because of the
blue blood-the united blood of all the
Howards-flowing in his veins, Mrs.
Granger interposed her fiat against our
love, dreading, doubtless, the plebeian
admixture of mine.
1t is pity that blood does not always
tell. 1t was an inglorious triumph to
me-yet still a triumph-to bare my
white arms to the shoulder during our
gala nights-to which my voice was al
ways inyited-cpntrasting their satiny
smoothness and perfect contour with the
lean, brown appendages Mrs. Granger
folded over her aristocratic heart.
But cloud crept into the sky, and
its shadow fell across our path.
Alan was called suddenly by telegram
to England, where his grand old father
lay dying. We had but a moment for
our farewellS, for Alan's heart was rent
with sorrow, and helped to expedite
But one letter ever reached me. His
father was dead, and he was Sir Alan
now.
"MY PRECIOUS HELEN: MY father whom l
loved and respected above all men, died yes
teriay. need not tell you how dcsolate we
feel, and how the light seems to have died out
of every nook and corner. My dear mother is
Frustrated with the blow which has taken
away the lover of her youth, and | shall not
be able 10 return to you for some weeks. An
nounce our betrothal, dearest, to my aunt and
uncle, which, you know, was my intention the
very night was called away. Be true to me,
my darling Helen, as l shall be true to you.
Goodnight, dear love. / shall write at length
as soon as my mother and have matured our
plans for her lonely future. Goodnight, good
night. May angels guide you, and may the
good Father fold about you His everlasting
arms. Your friend and lover,
ALAN LEIGHTON"
Two years had dragged their slow
length along since that letter came, and
had never heard from Alan, though
craving his presence as the prisoner
Graves the sunshine. l had written him
once, and l had regretted that. HE
was soon to be welded to an Earl's
handsome daughter" Mrs. Granger
read aloud from an open letter in her
hand; lin fact, it was an old affair,
prior to his visit to the hail." ETC., etc.
How regretted had written, though
the words had been few, merely asking
if he had been enabled to procure me a
certain book we had made mention of
together, and the time was more than a
year ago when had the right thus to
address him. And now! D pitiful
Christ! another woman was to be his
wife, and now / must never think of
the old days, or the old dreams, or look
into his dark eyes, or feel his kisses
upon my unkissed lips! Never! and l
might live fifty years.
And o the pity of it, out of all this
worlds million possibilities | had only
the chance of two-either to wed Regi-
maid Dacre, a man old enough to be my
father, or to be companion to some
naughty woman. had decided upon
accepting Mr.. Dacre. The tiny note of
barely two lines l had placed between
the leaves of a book it was his nightly
custom to read.
But Alan! but Alan! I had thought
him SO true, so noble. had called him
'my prince" my king" alone in the
warm dusk under the stars
Il will not soil thy purple with my
DUST" l had whispered in my heart.
"Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice
glass" went down to the
sea to listen to its sullen roar; hear it
tell its tale of human misery; of fair
faces dead under its waves; of gold and
jewels lying on green beds of moss; of
argosies gone down, the wall of human
misery their requiem. tried to re-
member all this, so that mine might not
seem such great thing amid world of
sobbing and tears. 1t was agood thing
to think of the sufferings of others. and
try to ignore your own; a good thing.
But, my misery! the misery of the girl
called Helen Preston!
This girl was somewhat of a genius,
the people said. She possessed the gift
of song and she was handsome, too,
men said. And she had two chances in
the world, and if she had had money
enough to have utilized her gift of song
she might have had three.
But she had smirched her soul, for all
her beauty and gifts; had been false to
herself, to God and humanity; false,
too, to Reginald Dacre, for she kept her
love for Alan locked in her heart.
Il have sold my soul for houses and
lands" she said, land l am wretched.
Mea culpa! Mea culpar'
81 have sold myself with open eyes,"
she said, knowingly, with malice pre-
pense. l have no one to blame. That
Alan forgot his vows did not make it
right that should forswear myself
But the sea, with its fuss and fret,
L. Il Al