Savannah morning news. [volume] (Savannah) 1868-1887, 1884-02-24

gentleman called to see him, Charlie left
him looking quite as well as he had done
for year. She left him with last bright
smile for his benefit as she closed the
door; but out of his sight the smile
faded, the bright looks left her face.
Charlie was miserable struggling with the
first great sorrow of her life. She loved
above all others this kindly old man, who
had petted and caressed her all her life,
and she thought she saw that his days
were numbered, that the seal Of death
was already on his brow. Since she had
seen her father pass away, it seemed an
easy thing for death to Law his cold touch
on human heart, and, this evening, look
ing back over her whole life, it seemed to
her that she had never really loved any
one but these two old people. She be-
lieVed her uncle would die, and then, so
closely were their lives knit together, that
her aunt would soon follow, and she should
be lett alone. She had never felt so ut
terly desolate. Her future stretched a
tedious, dreary waste before her eyes,
with only the forms of her grandmother
and her guardian lowering dark against
the gloomy background. She felt that she
must 90 somewhere and cry off this heart
ache, or she could not go back to the sit
ting-rOOm. The study door was open. In
there it seemed dark and cool, and she
walked in, and, laying her head ON the
II
tears as her brave nature rarely allowed.
! 1t seems, sometimes, a touching reme-
/ DIV lust such weeping, but it often repre-
| sents a great relief. When his father mad
/ jestingly appropriated Charlie and sent
/ him away, EscOtte had gone to his room,
! and, as much from force of habit as for
| any other reason, had taken up a book.
But the author was dull, or he was some
way not in the mood TO be pleased, for he
! found it q lite impossible to fix his atten-
/ ton on the articles before him.
/ Between his eyes and the printed
page a winsome vision would in
trude itself, and he could not resist its
beguilements. 1t was the face of fair
| young girl. Her cheeks were blooming;
! her lips were smiling; her bright eyes
/ looked full at him, and clear, mischieY-
/ Gus voice was speaking.
"Why do you ask? Do you want to
buy her out, sir?" His heart throbbed a
! little even now as he recalled the thrill
/ with which he had heard her. He felt
/ annoyed, even little provoked with him
| self. and vet it pleased him to recall the
/ short happiness of this afternoon walk.
/ He did not at all doubt but that the next
! day even would find him well cured Of
! this pleasing, transient weakness, but, for
/ this day and this hour, he would enter
| tain the strange new guest which had so
unceremOniously entered his heart. To
]
studies and remember it no more. He
| bad closed his book and sat, he never
| knew how long, dreaming, when, sudden
| " looking up, he discovered that his room
was almost dark-much too dark for
reading, and, concluding that he might
now join his fathers little circle in the
| room below, he walked quietly down the
broad stairs. The hall was not yet
lighted, and, as he passed the open door of
/ the study, he was startled to hear some
| thing very like Il wOman's sob. Very
! quickly, wondering at this unusual oC-
currence, he stepped in, and IN the fading
light easily distinguished Charlie, OF all
other people, lying on the sofa sobbng as if
her heart were breaking. He could hard
ly believe his own eyes. She had seemed
/ always to him too bright, too gay, too
proud and spirited for tears. He found
it difficult to associate them with her.
What did it mean? Who had wounded
her? Who had dared offend her, here in
his mothers house? Very much con-
cerned he went nearer, and sitting by her
said
"Charlie, what can have happened to
distress you? What can it be? Can't you
sit up and tell me?"
His tone was very grave, but far more
tender than he knew, and the girl, recOg-
nizing in him one to whom her grief
would be an almost equal trouble, even
one who loved uncle Henry toe, sat up
and tried to quiet her tears. He waited
very patiently, holding her hand and
strOking it gently between his own, and
asked her no other questions. He saw
that she would answer when she could,
and he waited silently. At last she said ::
'Mr. EscOtte, | wish l had died instend
of papa"
lie was so shocked that he did not speak
Immediately.
''Why, dear Charlie?'
because Pve nothing to live for now !"
"Do you miss your father so sadlyY
"Oh! no; OIL no; it is because in all the
great world had but one person to love,
and he is going to leave me-"
A quick pang shot through the mans
heart. Could it be after all that she loved
some one with whom she must shortly
part, and was she overwhelmed with this,
perhaps, unforeseen trouble? 1t required
an effort to speak again; but, little cold
ly, he said:
''And he must leave you, dear Charlie
Is he compelled to go?''
''Oh l know he is going. 1 see it!
feel It'll believe he is going to die, and l
wish l could go with himv'
SOrely distressed forjher he asked again
"WhOis it, dear Charlie?"
Don't you know? Can't you see how
worn and white he looks? 1t is uncle
Henry"
What of relief this answer brought was
lost in duh heartache. He knew better
than she did that his hOnored and loved
father was passing away, but he knew
also that the danger was by no means i'm
mediate; and, when he could speak with
calmness, he told her so, which, coming
from him, seemed no little comfort to her.
"But, Charlie" he continued. "yOu
said in all this world you had but one
friend to love. l wish | could tell yOu
what a friend l would be if you would
permit it, how tenderly, how devotedly,
how Watchfully l should care for you. Be
lieye me l do not offer my friendship to
everyone. Can't you give me akinsman's,
a friends right to love and watch over
you? Perhaps l have not known just
how to show it to you, but, since / came
back and saw you first, 1 have thought
daily and hourly Of your happiness.
There's nothing within the power of man
that | would not do for you; there's moth
ing halt so dear to me as your happiness.
Can't you say that for the future, that
future which just now looked sad and
dreary, you will let me be your true and
loving friend? ask no more, Charlie"
She did not think now, in her loneliness,
that he was proud and naughty, that he
was "stuck up" and arist0cratic, as she
had sc often thought before. She only heard
his marvelOusly sweet voice, and saw his
handsome face bending over her, and, in
her utter friendlessness, his words
sounded so kind, so true. Then he asked
so little, and her need was so great. 1t
seemed a good and happy thing to have
this man, who she knew was strong and
good, for friend, and she turned to him
/ and said:
81 have been mistaken in you, Mr.. Es-
cote. l thought you were dictatOrial
and superior with me, and did not like,
even looked down on me, but was wrong.
l ask your pardon. am glad to have so
good friend"
''Then promise me, Charlie, that may
| know all your troubles and perpleXities,
not the great ones alone, but the very
least, aud l promise that if trouble of any
sort comes to you, it will be because my
( love and care cannot avert it."
But | don't like to tell my troubles to
anybody but uncle Henry" she said, her
eyes instantly filling with tears.
Il am uncle Henry's son, dear; please
promise me-"
''Well, L do promise, as much for that
| reason as any other"
"Why did you leave the sitting-rOOmW
/ he asked, after a moment.
"Uncle Henry had visitor"
els he there stillp'
81 think So"
"Then come and walk a little while in
the garden before tea, and let me show
/ you the Fall roses"
4 l.. l. - III L.