The Middlebury register and Addison County journal. [volume] (Middlebury, Vt.) 1883-1885, 1883-01-05
her tear-wet face on the cares

maiden aunts of Honor Wyllie-said
nothing further at the moment. She
contented herself with parting,
smoothing and toying with her niece's
hair, and waited.
"There," said Honor at last, sitting
up and drying her eyes, "auntie, you
won't be angry-.no, / mean vexed at
what / am going to say2"
"Surely not, love. What is it, ell P"
asked Miss Mellis, in soft and sooth-
ing tone
81 should like to go home at once
tonight or tomorrow. Oh you will
let me, Aunt Alice? You will not
make objections?"
"But why, Honorp What have we
done?"
Nothing, aunt. But want to get
away from London. l must go "
She was so earnest that Miss Mellis
looked startled and troubled.
"What will Aunt Anne and Aunt
Mary say?" she asked "They have
been making plans for taking you out
next week-a concert, l think-but
don't let them know L told you, for it
was to be surprise. And your visit
only half over ~
AZ will talk to them, aunt, and
they will not be offended. l will finish
the visit sometime"
ut is through him, is it not ?" and
Miss Mellis gave little nod at the
window, as though Archer Douglas
were just outside.
| IInDnr,O 1only npcuyoroI bor
In the meantime Douglas started
| back to his chambers in Lincoln's Inn
in so confused frame of mind that
after being twice nearly run over he
| had to take cab, unconscious even
that the driver thereof winked know
ingly at another driver as he officially
helped him in.
Douglas might, in fact, have been
| in the condition the cabman sup
posed, so unconscious was he of what
| went on around him. Even when he
| was once more in his own room,
gloomy as dark, wet day in London
could make. his thoughts were scarcely
under his own control.
For the next week he fought hard
| to drive from his mind this gnawing
regret; but he fought vainly, for the
conviction that she could have loved,
or ever did actually love him, was too
strong; and his trouble, instead of
growing less, seemed almost to in
crease.
He determined at last to go away
for time and see what change would
effect. And with this decision came
another. He would make an attempt
to be reconciled to his father with
whom he had quarreled some six
months since.
While he was full of hopes and plans
for the future, Honor Wyllie partici-
pating IN them all, this division from
the only near relation he possessed
seemed but trining thing. Now that
he was again thrown upon himself,
his loneliness seemed to magnify ten
timesthe weight of the blow that had
failed upon him.
NId ~elt rather like prodigal as the
tram whirled him through Kent and
into Sussex; for it was at Hastings
that his father now dwelt. He knew
that he had been in the wrong On
the mere suggestion of possible step
mother he had spoken with passionate
resentment of such an idea. But why
not? His father was but forty-fve.
Why should he be condemned to live
alone possibly twenty or thirty years
longer.
Still bordering over these questions
he reached the end of his journey.
He stood still among the crowd of
people even at this time of year seek
ing health or amusement here. Inva-
lids in bath-chairs were wheeled past
him; children with spades tumbled
over his feet; sailors asked him if he
wanted a boat; but he scarcely saw or
heard. He looked sadly far out over
the wide eXpanse of sea, tinted in
stripes of gray and blue, as the clouds
and sky alternated above, and glisten-
ing with white streaks that, near at
hand, became the snowy crests of rest
less waves.
Looking out thus he felt the desire
to be alone growing into a definite
longing. He shrank still from the
meeting with his father, who might,
for all he knew, receive him coldly and
keep him at distance. And so think
ing, he wandered through the quaint
old town and out upon the rock-strewn
beach.
A short walk brought him to part
of the shore quite unfrequented. Here,
upon boulder quantity striped, where
larger boulders broke the cutting wind,
he sat and watched the breaking waves
and thought.
How long he had been there he
could not have told, when his reverie
was brought to an end by the appear
ance of two figures between him and
the sea. Though not ten yards from
where he sat they did not see him,
but stood still in the wintry sunlight
in earnest and apparently agitated
talk.
"Thank you for your frankness,
love-" the man was saying, though the