The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1884-01-19

his vitality and sent him back, broken in
health and spirit, to die within sight of his
ancestral roof, but not beneath lis shelter.
His parents were dead, the other members
OF his family had gone away; the only la
mliar face he had seen since his return was
that of Tom Ainslee, his collage friend. He
was quartered in hired lodgings, and they
were as bleak and dismal as such places
generally are. In the room where he lay
there was faded brussels carpet, an arm
chair OUT at elbows. a hair-cloth sofa, bed
aud some other essential articles in keeping
with those already mentioned. The room
was hot, and the street below was noisy.
He lay there listlessly, lor king at the stunt
ed naples, with leaves all covered with dust
whose tops just reached the open window
by his bed, yearning for one breath of pure,
fresh air, ore hour of perfect quiet. But
there would never be anything else but this
| until it was all over; he would never leave
his room until he left the world He
turned YEARLY away from the window and
covered his eyes with his hand.
There was a knock at The door, and he
| responded feebly "Come inn it was too
early for the doctor; it might be his land
lady who sometimes came in to see ie he
needed anything, and to give him his med:-
cine. lie heard the rustic of drapery, and
smeled faint sweet odor. He lifted his
! hand from his eyes and beheld vision. A
| fair. slender woman, clad in soft white
| null that seemed to make the room several
| degrees cooler was standing by the bed.
| She wore bunch of heliotrope in her belt,
| whose fragrance seemed like a blessed
| breath from that far away nook he bad been
longing for onlya moment before; from un-
der the fluffy, feathery poke bonnet fell a
slightly curling fringe of bright brown hair
and pair of large violet eyes beamed ON
him with sweet compassion.
| He was an unpremising subject truly; his
| face was sharp and sallow, and beard
| about week old added much to its bag
| gardness. BE must be very tall, for he
seemed to stretch away from her indefinite
| ~, as she stood there at the beds head, and
he was thin to emaciation.
This is Mr.. Hemingway she said at
last.
1T was once" he answered YEARLY.
81 am Miss Margaret Winthrop" she con-
tinued II am DR.. Ainslee's sister-in-law.
believe you are his patient?'
"Yes; Tom and are old friends, and /
remember your father very we'll. Won't
you be seatedp' he asked, suddenly remem-
bering his position as host.
She drew up the shabby armchair and sat
down by the bed. 1t twas not 80 easy to be-
gin as she had imagined.
"He will take me for a lunatic or an assas-
sin with designs upon imaginary wealth."
she thought as she sat there revolving her
cold-booded scheme and wishing she had
deliberated upon it more fully before taking
this step. But it was too late to go back
now. What plausible excuse could she give
for having come there unattended? He
would tell Tom, of course that she had been
there. Tom would tell Anne, who would
look unutterable things and lecture her for
week. He had evidently suffered much; he
was lying there so miserable and helpless; it
seemed that she had never appreciated the
inhumanity of the whole pr ceeding till
now. But she was woman of resolution,
She had satisfied herself that the arrange
ment would he one of mutual advantage.
The only question in her mind was how to
begiu.
lit was very kind and thoughtful of you
to come" he said, breaking the somewhat
prOtracted silence.
Thoughtful but not kind, perhaps she
replied With nice discrimination. Tom
was telling us to-day how uncomfortable
you were here and how ill. / understood 1
from him that you did not have proper at
tention, and-that-you could not get well,
and | came here with a purpose"
He looked UP gratefully; aud she could
not have felt more guilty or contemplate it
she had stabbed him with knife and re-
ceived In return his dying benediction But
she bad the courage of desperation and she
kept on She told him her plan, which was
briefly to marry him and attend him care
fully for the trifing remnant of his exis-
tence, in return for which he was to bestow
upon her the inestimable privileges of wild
owhood.
1t was not so buntly stated, of course, and
was accompanied by many why's and where
fores intended to modify TO some extent
what she considered the fiendish conception
and the indicate execution of the plot.
1t was of no consequence whatever to
Hemingway that she desired his demise;
was even figuring upon it at that moment
with pleasurable aniicipatlons of time
when it would have cast about her mantle
of unimpeachabe dignity and permanent
security from social pei secutlons. She was
sitting there, like section of paradise,
fitted into that dingy chair, Illuminating the
whole room and filing it with the exquisite
odor of heiotrope. To such a presence
man may forgive much. There was but
one thought in his mind after he was as
sured that it was not an Illusion which had
come to torture him with malicious contrast:
"Her friends would Certainly object"
She assured him with strict 7era:ity that
it was her own affair entirely and rested
with themselves.
When it all came out Annie was shocked
beyond anything. She bad always known
that "Meg' would do something disgrace
fui, but she was not prepared for this. To
deliberately propose to man, and then
coolly sit down with the eyes of the whole
community upon her and wait for him to
diet was too much.
The doctor was secretly in sympathy with
what he called the Mutual Benefit Associa-
ton, and the result OF all this was an imme-
date and quiet wedding, at which the
groom did not wear the regulation black.'
ANY unpleasant gossip that might have
followed the event was neatly averted by a
story industrously circulated by Tom Aims
lee to the effect that Hemingway was really
an old lover of Meg's, and some mysterious
hints of a romantic story in the background
that he could tell if be felt disposed
A week later, when Ainslee came for his
usual afternoon visit TO the invalid, Meg
called him aside and hesitatingy inquired |
whether he thought it would hurt the pa
tient to be moved.
sUm-m-m, no; 1 don't think it would |
hurt him to be moved; in fact, am sure it
would not; but would suggest that you are
in danger of defeating your own purpose.
If you nurse him too we'll, you know he
might recover, and that, under the circum-
stances, would fall little short of disaster"
Don't be brutal, Tom," she said. sThs |
place is ineffably dismal, and he may as well
be comfortable for the little time that is
left"
She took a cottage in the suburbs near the |
river, with plenty Of space around it, and
windows that looked out upon an expanse
OF shining water and fa--blue rims of hills.
1t was june; about the verandas and win
dows hung a mass of climbing roses that |
filled the place with fragrance, and into the |
airy front room, with its wide windows and |
its distant glmpses of river and green hills |
beyond, " ent the iEvalid's bed.
All day long the fresh breeze from The |
river, laden with the odor of roses, parted |
the 1eecy drapery of the windows and blew
softly upon his face. Everywhere reisned |
the delicious quiet bis tortured nerves had |
needed above all things; the grateful alb
sence of the sound of wheels aud other ur-
ban noises that had fretled his soul With |
their din-the only echo of these that |
reached him now was the daily pilgrimage |
of Tom Ainslee's buggy. Near him all |
day long sat Meg in her soft white dress
and her flowers, with the soft light
on her brown hair, and softer lighl
in her great violet eyes; surroundings |
tuhi ob oivlu i,v