The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1884-08-02
WHOLE No. 1854.

! the room to the door, and then | come
back to her.
"Gou will never forgive me- | say,
brokenly 'but some time, perhaps, you
will dcspise me less, tor | shall never
trouble you again"
care you going away" she asks,
family.
'To-night."
'Wait," she says, in a hoarse, low
whisper. II can not let you go believing
what is false And then she clasps my
hand in hers, and hides her face against
it. ''God help us both - she cried, with
a sudden wild burst of tears.
| 1t is ten days later, and am sitting in
my room at hotel in New York. | am
to sail in the Russia to morrow, and as
pressing business in the West is supposed
TO have prevented me from meeting John
| Churchill, | have been spending ten days
in dreary railroad waiting rooms, or still
more dreary sleeping cars. My feeling
towards John has changed bitterly since
my love and parted. The sacrifice which
we have made of both our lives to our
affection for bin has surely blotted out
| all the kindly memories of "auld lang
syne,' as we'll as made my future such a
| blank before me, and my remorse has
| become resentment. 1t required all my
small stock of submission when | prom
| ised her that he who was my friend and
her lover should never know how utterly
we had forgotten him and betrayed his
| faith i'll us. AS pace up and down to-
night can feel nothing but a pity and
| longing, which will last the whole dreary
! life before me, for her, my love, whose
fair face | may never see again, who is
even now with her betrothed lover, and
who will be his wife whenever he wishes.
| \ knock at the door makes me start.
Come in."
ga letter, SIR
| take it listlessly, and the boy leaves
the room. My heart beats thickly,
| though, as recognize the writing, for it
is John Churchills. | open it hastily,
assuring myself that it can contain moth
ing but Il very natural regret at my de-
parture without d glimpse of each other.
MY DEAR STUART-Is it really posi-
ole that you have business in Paris so
urgent that you can't give me sight Of
you after all these years wears which
have made men of us boys, only, trust,
to strengthen the friendship which is al
most as old as we are. | am really i'll,
more seriously so, sometimes imagine
from my doctors solemn face, than he
will tell me; perhaps it is only sick
mans morbid fancy, but, dear old fellow,
feel as if i'll letting you go now it may
be for the last time, aud there are many
things on which | wish to consult you if
anything should come Of my fancies.
| \ on will put off your voyage for week,
and come to me for II few days if you
can, am sure. | am staying, as you
| know, with Mrs. Bruce, and BERTHE joins
me in my request. Yours,
JOHN CuURCHTLL."
| | walk the room half the night before
| decide that cannot refuse his request
| must make this one more sacrifice Of
seeing them together Then, l think,
YEARLY, as | at last try to sleep, surely |
shall suffer all that even he could wish
did he know my sin. BERTHE joins him
in his request. My brave little girl can
| fall behind her in courage and endur-
anceo
1t is late in the next afternoon when
arrive at home, and having previously
telegraphed to John my coming, | walk
down to Mrs. Bruce's directly after dln-
ner. AS near the gate | stand still,
startled out of my bitter thoughts as at
the sight of ghost. Can that be John,
that gaunt, haggard man leaning over
the low gate, and watching me with such
curious, unmoved steadiness
''lt is really |, Stuart" he says pres
emily, with a short, unmirthful laugh;
and he opens the gate, putting out both
hands to me with a GESTURE that would
| be full of his old affection were it not for
| the strange questioning scrutiny of his
hollow eyes. Il told BERTHE you wouldn' t
know me, but she thought you would"
scarcely hear him, in the rush of old
tenderness and new pity which blinds
my eyes and shakes my voice as | clasp
| his hands and stammer, John. John
why didn't you come home before %
why indeed. Can't you guess, Stuart?
No, you have never loved, and felt that
health and life were well risked to win a
home for your wife"
Miss Bruce is worth it, if any woman
is, L say, quietly, as we walk up the
path together; land now that you are
here, she and her mother will soon nurse
you well again.
sit was kind of you to give up Your
journey and come to me, like my old
friend who has never failed me yet. Let
US sit here for little, while you finish
your cigar. BERTHE will call us for cup
of tea presently"
We seat ourselves in the small vine
hung porch, and through the open win.
dows | can hear the soft voices of BERTHE
and her mother. John leans back in his
chair and looks at the sunset, while |
look at him, my friend, my brother, dy-
ing before he is thirty, and robbed,
though he does not know it .of that which
he has sacrificed his strong young life to
deserve. God strengthen me for his sake,
that | may bear the burden of my treach-
cry in silence, and not fall down at his
feet in my remorse. As for her whom
we both loye, God helps His own they
say, and surely He must help her, fol
whose sweet and tender soul tho burden
must be still heavier. Poor, pale child,
she comes to the window now, and says,
softly:
John, mamma says it is too chilly fol-
you now that the sun has set
"And what does BERTHE say >" he asks
taking the little hand near him, and
looking up in her face without rising.
She smiles. (Where do women, young
and sheltered all their days from trouble
learn to smile SO naturally, though theil
hearts are breaking, when we men, with
our boosted superiority of strength anG
courage, never achieve more than a grim
calmness p "Ber:ie says, Come too
she wants to sing for you"
John, still holding her hand, rises, anG
| T rise too