Savannah morning news. [volume] (Savannah) 1868-1887, 1884-08-10
THE SAVANNAH MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, AUGUST TO-

me with fresh savage strength and deter
minatlon. l pressed forward as IN
struggle for life-resistless, remorseless,
reckless of what l trampled down before
me-and my unseen opponent gave way
with sudden yielding, and 1 fell into nay
chair spent and breathless as one who has
wrestled with a spirit. / gathered the
mass OF paper up and carried it to table
before the fire, where a bright lamp was
burning. The change of place seemed to
bring safety. took up the first envelope
that came and drew forth the inclosure.
a dark mist seemed to descend and blind
my vision for an instant, but IN that IN
slant there passed through me an expert
ence that l cannot write here.
l was still David Gwynne, but | was
also Cyril Blest-Cyril, dumb, helpless,
struggling for power of speech or sign, IN
mortal agony, and l deaf and blind to his
entreaties, while my whole soul was rent
by the passion of them.
1t passed and passed before the scrap OF
paper, that had slipped from my fingers
and gently fiuttered down beside my foot.
L stopped and picked it up and laid it
with the rest; then, with aYerted eyes
and unfaltering hand, dropped the pile
into the depths Of a glowing cavern of
tire and heaped the fuel high above it.
The flames broke out, Pickering high in
Wreaths came Whirling out into the room.
They spread, grew dense, and then in
their centre seemed to grow lighter and
thinner, changing from dun to rose, and
so to a filmy golden mist, that flOated
apart and showed me for one moment
CyriPs face-Cyril as / had never seen
him, never dared to fancy him; not
angry, not grieved, but drawn and disfig-
ured by crushing shame and anguish.
The dropping lids lifted themselves Ian
guidly, and the eyes raised themselves to
mine in mute, hopeless appeal, and then
the smOke-wreaths gathered again, and
the vision faded, leaving me alone, crying
wildly, with outstretched arms, to Cyril
to tCust me-that nothing should change
me O. shake my faith in him.
A little shower of glowing fragments
ralned down on the hearth through the
black rail of the CRATE. One, with its lit
tie border of fiery sparks, drifted out from
the rest, and for one brief second one
word started out in vivid clearness. l
knew the hand, and the word was
"Leslie.v
L let Martin Jebb think what he would
about the missing keys next day. The
village blacksmith did his business easily,
and we set to work at ours. Everyone
knows the result.
sit is sincerely to be regretted" saws
menced so well by DR.. Dorman should
have been abandoned to- another hand.
Throughout the whole of Mr.. Gwynne's
volume we miss the keen sympathy and
intelligent appreciation which Mr.. Dor
man brought to his work and labor of
love. Mr.. Gwynne's criticisms are unge-
NAL, his admiration perfunctOry. He
evidently discharges an unwelcOme task,
of which the reader perhaps wearies no
sooner than he does"
Little Mr.. Jey0ns, the publisher, puts
it more strongly. He was in a good, hon
est rage with me, and he let me see it:
''Napid and sterile, sir-that's what /
consider it. Mere dry-as-dust gropirgs,'
as poor Carlyle used to say. All, he
knew what went to popular biography!
Heknew how to put in the touch of nature
that makes the whole world kin. This is
mistake from beginning to end-a mar
row, One-sided view Of a life, and all the
material for an ADLER and more compre-
hensiYe study of the late Professor, am
given to understand, wantonly destroyed
Sir, l have no hesitation in saying you
have been false to your trust, false to the
memory of your friend, false to human
nature, false to the British public, Good
day."
81 don't blame you, Gwynne." says
Paul; sit was my fault. Poor Cyril
trusted me, not you. You did your best,
of course; but-you don't mind my saving
it'll never did think it was IN you to see
all that poor Cyril really was.''
Leslie alone is silent, and speaks not to
me in praise or blame.-AU the Year
Round