The Dawson journal., 1883-07-26
A Buried Romance.

the gathering twilight, she looked
older than he, this woman of rare
grace and matchless charm, whose
eyes rested SO worshipfully on the
lace OF the man who had thrown
himself on the cushion at her feet
older than the year themselves
would warrant, Tor she, Sydney
Reed, was in reality but six years
George Winston S senior. But six
years leave their impress when
their way lies over burning
ploughshares. o
There were lines upon the lovely
face, and sadness in the beauti-
full eyes, no time unaided could
have wrought. She passed her
hand now, half bewilderingly
across her brow.
"ls sorrow for me really at an
endY she murmured, II cannot
grasp it,
"At an end forever, darling, il
my strength avails anything to
keep it from your door, for tonight
you belong for the last time to
yourself. Tomorrow you belong
to me!' answered the young conf
dent voice.
He was twenty-five, this boy.
She was twenty-eight, and a wild
ow. Her married life had been
one of unutterable wretchedness.
Four years before, her husband
had deserted her. Two years lat
er she had learned of his death,
which had taken place in a drunk
en- brawl in a far Western city.
She had put on the outward
badge of mourning in memory of
the days when he, handsome and
reckless, had smiled away her girls
heart. She buried in his unseen
grave her weight Of woe, and with
it all bis faults. She thought, too,
that she had long buried youth and
happiness, but three months since
they had resurrected themselves,
and listened to George Winston's
pleading words and loving prayer,
she fouAd resistance had failed
her, and so granted him the boon
he asked of her.
And tomorrow was to be her
second wedding day. Fondly and
hopefully he painted to her the
coming years, each moment of
which should be to her a recon-
pense for past misery. She said
little. TWAS such JOY to hear his
voice, to feel his touch, to creep
into the shelter of his love and rest
there, grateful and content.
It was ten o'clock when she babe
him goodnight. She still felt the
tender pressure of his lips upon
hers, as she mounted the stairs to
her room. She made him leave
her thus early because some of her
preparations were yet to be made |
for the morrow, and had promised |
him to retire before midnight
though her waking dreams she
said were so much sweeter than
any slumber might bestow, she
hardly thought the exchange a
fair one.
There were some letters she
wanted to be preserved. Among
these letters were a few he had |
written to her, during a short alb
sence, a month previous.
She took out the first from its
wrapper to re-read, but had not
turned the page when there came
a low rap at the door.
"Come ill.," she called, half-im-
patiently, without looking up.
She had given orders to her ser
wants not to be disturbed. She |
had told Marie, her maid, to come
to her at midnight. 1t was not
yet half-past ten.
The door opened at her sum-
mons, but no one entered.
"Well, Marie. what is it9" she |
questioned, and slowly raised her
eyes, to fnd-no Marie, no servant, |
but mans form, quaint and bag |
gard, darkening the, Threshold |
mans eyes hot and burning, fixed |
upon her face.
She sat carven into stone. 1t |
was pitiful to see the blood recede |
from her face, leaving it white and |
darwin. IL three hottTs previously |
size had looked older than her
lover, ten years were now added
to her age.
Her lover? No longer had she
a rieht to the possession of the
sweet title, for he whose gaze held
hers was her living husband-the
man whom for two years she had
mourned as dead.
He came forward at last, closing
the door behind him, aid adyanc-
ing with feeble lettering steps to-
wards her.
Speak to, mel" he said. "Give
me one word Of welcome, one word
of forgiveness"
She opened her lips then, but no
sound came.
"I-I know" he went on. "You
need not tell me. You were to
have been married. 1t would have
been a crime. But for this | would
not have come. would still have
let you give credence to my death.
Oh, Sydney, will you not believe
me when [ swear to you that, both