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

After while he asks her to sing, so fair
dove, O fond dove" When she has fin
ished she seats herself beside him.
81 never knew you to like sentimental
songs before" she says, cheerily, 'and
this is the fourth time you have asked
me to sing this since you come home"
@! got fond of it last winter in China,
when was getting over the fever, he
says, looking up at her with tender eyes,
as he leans back in his low chair. "There
was an English girl in the next room to
mine who nsed to sing it over and over
again, 50 distinctly that could hear the
words quite plainly, and that verse used
to comfort me sometimes when | thought
should never see any of You again:
| so maid most dear,
l am not here,
l have no place, no part,
No dwelling more,
BY sea or shore,
| Save only in thy heart
The low voice ceases, and Berties head
sinks on the arm Of his chair, with a sob
which goes to my heart. | rise hastily,
and Mrs. Bruce follows me from the
room.
you have known him all his life, 4" she
cries, through her tears, as we stand to-
gether on the porch. "What do you
think of him 90
1T makes me doubt Gods justice,
cry, with an outburst of the misery 1
have been struggling with all the even
ing.
| Then | walk away through the moon
| light, which seems to mock with it's cold
peacetulness the tumult of passion and
agony in my heart
The days slip by somehow, very slow
and heavy in their passing, yet seeming
very short and few when they are gone.
John grows weaker with every day, and
in less than week after my coming is
confined to his room. The doctors come
and go, alternately shaking their heads
solemnly and talking hopefully of the
| effects of tones and climate, and wheth.
er they are solemn or hopeful, John lies
on his sofa, and looks up at them with
an odd smile in his hollow eyes, and says
nothing. do not see him often, though
on the day after my arrival he used every
argument of old friendship to induce me
to postpone my voyage to Europe until
the autumn, and l against my own will,
| nd 1rr,n l,n+ +l,o L,
one long torture to me) consented, not
SO much out of my affection for him as
to deaden what for one instant looked
| like suspicion on his part of the motive
for my refusal. When | do see him,
BERTHE is sure to be there, singing or
reading to him; or sometimes sitting
quite quiet beside his sofa. She grows
paler and thinner all the time, poor brave
| little martyr but she never fails in the
part she has assumed. We touch each
others hands and speak and look when
it is absolutely necessary, but by no word
or glance does she recall the love which
| know is mine. | think the greatest
| horror to us both, through these dreary
days and xhts, is the thought which
comes to us every now and then, half
bitterest pain, half widest joy, of what
Johns death may mean for all our lives.
He is grown very exacting of her care,
Mrs. Bruce tells me when | come twice
each day to inquire for him, and is only
| restless when she is out of his sight.
| When she is there, no murmer for his
pain escapes him. ''IIe is quiet and
cheerful, and SO pathetically tender with
her" says Mrs. Bruce, ''that | think he
knows that he will only have her for
| little WHILE
AS for me, sometimes fancy, in spite
of his desire to have me near, that COM
| ing death has banished from Johns once
wide and tender heart all but the one
grand passion of his life.
SO the days slip on, and it is late July
when one afternoon the servant brings
me note from Mrs. Bruce:
DEAR Mr.. EUsTACE-John insisted
on seeing the doctors !.lone this morning,
and hearing his exact condition. | saw
them atterward, and they told me, what
they had told him, that he cannot live.
lie wishes to see you as soon as you re-
celVe this. Sincerely yours,
| MARY BRUCE
order my horse, and ride down through
the glazing sunshine at a rate which l
dare say is surprising to the few passels
| meet, but such hours as | endure after
| receive Mrs. Bruce's note until enter
Johns room can only be borne by strain
ing every nerve in some kind of action.
| Very quiet and still looks the little house,
and the servant who opens the door for
me and tells me that l may go at once to
Mr.. Churchill is the only person whom l
see until stand in Johns presence.
The windows are open, the shutters
closed, and in the fragrant half darkness
| can hardly discern that we are alone.
John is lying on his sofa as usual, but lie
did not put out his hand as | stand be-
side him; only looks up into my face
with two burning eyes, and says, sharply,
"Iou know that am dying?"
bend my head, and sit down near
him. Why do | not clasp his hands in
mine and weep those bitter tears with
which heart and brain seem bursting?
Because in those questioning eyes, in
that sharp voice, read something dare
not understand, but which brushes back
the tenderness which feel he would not
believe. There is silence, which lie
breaks with harsh laugh.
Have you nothing to say to me?
Does my death mean nothing to you -
you who have been my more than BROTH
er since ever can remember
Jack" l falter-'Jack,' (thc old
childish name, unspoken for years, comes
to my lips now with the rush Of old men,
cries and new fears) don't let us quar-
rel now you know that love YOU
You love me ~ The scorn of those
three words sends the blood bounding
resentfully through my veins but |
clinch my hands and sit motioness,
What right have | to resent his contempt?
Traitor and coward, who dare not even
confess your treachery. l am dying, sir,
and l will not be deceived any longer"
,,o