The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1884-08-02


she does not suspect my treachery, and
that no shadow of my falsehood has fall
len across her perfect truth. She loves
him, not me. | say it over and over to
myself, with fierce pleasure in my pain,
for it is half my bitterest anguish, half
my only comfort, that neither he nor she
nor any one will ever know that am
forever in my own sight hopeless lover,
false friend. dishonored man. No
one among our ncighbors knows of their
engagement, for, as John went away to
China for three years, it was thought
wisest that 10 one should be told but her
mother and myself. So when | returned
from Paris, year later, it was only mai
ural that what seemed brotherly kind
ness to BERTHE and Mrs. Bruce should be
set down as lovers devotion by lockers
on. If | can only trust myself to keep
my secret from those clear eyes of hers
until | can find a reasonable excuse for
returning to Europe, all will be well for
her and for him. But reason or no reas-
on, not much longer can ride with her,
read with her, and feel-oh my God l.
SO guiltily far from her. Once or twice
within a few days it has occurred to me
that she avoids being left alone with me,
and that she speaks of John more often
than she used, but in colder and more
constrained manner, and it rushes over
me, with an agony which dlzzies me for
an instant, that my secret may be even
now in danger, and that the little worth
life still has will be lost if | teach her to
despisc me. | stand still under the trees
by the road side, and resolve that to day
it must be done we are to ride together,
and herself. and then, guarded from my
weakness by her mothers presence,
shall tell them that am obliged to leave
for Europe i'll few days. | light a
cigar, for my hands are trembling like a
girls, and | must be calmer before
trust myself with her. | walk SO slowly,
in my efforts to be quiet, that Williams
arrives with the horses Just as | enter
Mrs. Bruce's pretty garden, and before |
can ring the bell the door is opened and
BERTHE stands there.
Il shall not be able to ride to- day"
she says, hurriedly. Il was just writing
a note to tell you 50, iIr. Eustace."
Il am very sorry" 1 begin. But she
breaks in, nervously, Twill you come in
an instant, and let me tell you my
news?"
| follow her into the parlor. 1t is just
such room as refined, home-loving
women can make beautiful, with a beauty
thousand times more charming than
that of satin and gilting, Her little writ
ing table stands before one of the win
dows. and she takes from it an open
letter.
From ,John?' ask.
Yes"
''No bad newso" i exclaim. for she is
not like herself.
''Both bad and good, she says, slowly,
still looking down at her letter. "Mr.
Churchill will be here next week but
am afraid he is very ill.,"
Her voice fa.tels over the last words,
but | can not speak. | stand and look at
her as dying man may look for the last
time on the woman he loves. Now in
deed must leave her, for to see them to-
gether would be more than | could en-
durf. She is in white, which somehow
suits her as it never does other women,
and the sunshine streaming through the
open window behind her touches her soft
brown hair with a golden halo like
saints in picture. She is very pale,
and there is such a look of suffering in
her face as helps me to the self-control
for which am struggling.
''What is the matter with him ?" |
manage to ask, with sufficient COM
posture.
''lou know he had fever some months
since, and it must have been much worse
than he wrote me, for he has never been
quite we'll, and the doctors have ordered
him home" Her voice grows steadier
as she goes on Gle will be in New York
in few days; so mamma and are going
in tomorrow, and shall bring him back
with us.
Being with you" break off for an
instant. ''Iour mother, | should think,
might nurse any one well again"
The color rushes all over her pale face,
and for the first time she raises her eyes
to mine. "And |? % she asks, passionate
ly. You believe that l would die if |
might save him."
| dare not meet those shining eyes for
fear that mine should reveal the love she
must never know, so turn and walk away
to another window, overcome, as she
thinks, by my pity and anxiety for John.
''Mr. Eustace, dare say mamma and
| are more frightened than we need be-
See, he writes quite cheerfully.'
| take the page of the latter she holds
out to me and go back to the window
TO read it, while she seats herself at her
writing table, saying:
Evil you post this note for me? 1t is
to engage rooms fer us tomorrow at the
hotel where mamma always stays"
OF, O.,
given me to read, but I see only two
words halfway down the page-sMy
own His own. not mine, forever.
What a faithless wretch am | become,
that what John says of his health matters
nothing to me beside those two little syl-
tables, which are at once the brand of NJ y
sin and my sentence of doom.
Through these bitter thoughts comes
a sudden sharp cry:
"Help me-"
turn and spring toward her as she
stands covering and bent together, and
then | see that the loose sleeves of her
dress have caught fire from the lighted
taper on ner "fltlnS-IaDle, ana That the
flames are spreading to the skirts with
which she madly tries TO smother them.
| catch up the rug-thank God heavy
solid carpet not easy to ignite-and clasp
and crush her in it until she whispers
''Let me go; am safe
Then release her. and see that she is
indeed saved. Beyond that first cry OF
hers tlnrc has lnen no sound and 1ye ar1