Morning journal and courier., 1884-11-07
9, 1884.
Ind He Wed Her P
By MRS. SOUTHw0RTH, AutIaor Of tsrhe Hidden Hamd,,s stSe1fa Made,s g stThe Bride of am Even- Img,,s &c.
CHAPTER I. IN THE ATTIC


 ing,,, &c. CHAPTER l. IN THE ATTIC. .sPalma, will you give me the legal right ! to care for youa Will you have me for your husbandF' he asked, gently taking her hand and bending over her.
 tsOh, sir, do you mean itl Can you mean | itap she breathed, gazing up in his face with childish frankness, surprise and delght-th | failing light kindling in her dark eyes, the fading color flushing in her wan cheeks. | a1 do mean it, dear child. Will you give yourself to mel' he asked, smoothing her l dark hair with his jeweled hand. | ttYes, oh, yes, if you want me; but am | such poor creature" ," she answered, holding out to him her wasted hand and smiling i faintly.
 tso be it, then," he said, lifting the little l hand to his lips.
 | tsWhat mockeryi-Sir, you must be | mad n severely spoke woman who stood be I side the poor invalid chair in which the ta- | ding girl reclined, and over which the fine I gentleman leaned.
 She was right. It did indeed seem mockery-a cruel, Dit { ter, insulting mockery. | For the scene of this startling proposal of | marriage was in the rear room in the attic of l an old tumbling down tenement house in the \ lowest and most thickly crowded quarter of ! \ It was room of about twenty feet square, but the back roof sloped from the boards half way across the low ceiling. The bare I walls were freshly whitewashed, the bare ! floor cleanly scrubbed. To the left, in the corner, stood poor little cheap sewing ma chine-idIe now, these many weeks, since the ! work had fallen from the failing hands or the \ fair young seamstress. On the right side of the room, with it's Y head against the wall, stood small, single \ cot-bed, covered with patchwork quilt Of | many colors. To the right of this stood an \ old bureau, with it's top covered by white | cloth. On it lay Bible, prayer-book and ! a hymn-book To the left was pine table, also covered with white cloth. Such was the scene in which our drama of | life opens. As for the actors The first speaker was Cleve Stuart, man ! in the morning of life, health and strength; tall, handsome stately blonde, with fresh complexion, blue eyes and silky, yellow hair and mustache. He was perfectly dressed i'll | day suit of gray tweed. He was an aristo- crat from head to foot. She to whom he spoke was a young girl scarcely past childhood; 8 dark brunette, with a thin, dark face, large, cavernous, dark eyes and wilderness of curling, dark hair wandering all over her head, neck and shoul- der. The fires of fever kindled in her hol- \ low eyes and burned in her wasted cheeks. And yet she was Q creature of wondrous beauty even in decay. She was clothed in 8 | faded blue wrapper, and lay back, propped \ with pillows, in an old armchair near the | window.
 The last speaker was woman of middle ! age, with tall, spare form, pale, eareworn ' face and iron-gray hair. 'sWhy should it be mockery, Mrs. PoleP' ! inquired the young man, dropping the hand ' of the girl and drawing himself up.
 f'It is all nonsense, and worse than non- \ sense. And you ought to know il, ,Ssir. The child is too young to marry anyhow, if she was ever so well and strong. And, now, | just look at her. She is- Oh, you needn't stare at me and shake your head, sir! She | knows her state. She is fully reconciled to it. The minister has been with her every day for week past She is young saint, prepared for heaven, sir; not 8 girl ready to ' be married"
 Cleve Stuart did not answer this, but turned and took again the hand of the girl, \ and looked in her face.
 She raised her brilliant dark eyes to his with deprecating glance, and then replied to the woman:
 X Don't, don't, dear nurse; you make me ashamedi I saint! Oh, far from it. D ' Cleve Stuart silently pressed her hand. \ "But she is right in one respect, sir, con \ tinued the girl. "I do know my condition \ and am reconciled to it. The Fathers vii \ be done," she added.
 tsMy dear child, while there is life there i
 hope,' even for the aged. And you ar ' young; in the earliest spring time of life \ With change of scene, pure air, good foot
 and devoted attention, such as I would b \ sure to give you day and night, health an'
 strength would return to you. And yo1
 have said that you will give me the lega
 right to devote myself to you in this way"
 'Yes, said so; not because hope to ge
 we'll, but because I do want you to be witt
 me always during the little time I have t ! live, even to the last of earth. I fear this
 very selfish of me-" she added depreeatingly
 t'No, no, my child, there is no selfshnes ! in your wish, and it shall be gratifed, |" h
 said, again caressing her dark hair with hi
 hand.
 Observe, my reader, that there was toucl of pity and benevolence in his words anC
 was no tone of love or passion in either I Yet she did not perceive the absence of them HYou are so good, very good to me God bless you" gratefully replied the girl \ He lifted her hand to his lips and aros
 and took his hat and said:
 q will go out now and fetch ministe
 and carriage for you We will be married ! immediately, and then will never leave yoI \ again. will take you at once out of thi \ miserable place and carry you, by easy stages to the country, among the mountains ana the forests, where you can have fresh air ana cool breezes, and breathe the health -givinl fragrance of the pines. will be back her \ within the hour
 \ She put up her hand to stop him and thel | said pleadingly:
 "Oh, no, sir; no, please; not this day-no this of all daysl"
 He hesitated in perplexity.
 "But why not this day? Why not thi hourl The sooner we are married the better
 I think, he said; for, looking down in he ' wan face, and hearing her faint voice, h ' thought her days-perhaps her hours-wer numbered.
 4 ''But to-day is Good Friday" said Palma [ gravely. "And we could not be married ol I Good Friday, you know"
 s'To-morrow, then7"
 'sOh. no! That would be almost as bad
 But on Sunday, after the morning service, j you will"
 Every well, little devotee It shall be a you please. On Sunday, then, between tn
 morning and the afternoon service, I vii
 claim your hand, he said cheerful1y.
 "Oh, how vain! Sunday is three days oi ! yet. And the doctor says Now, there
 sirI You needn't look at me so significant
 tell you she knows her state just as well a \ do, and 8 deal better than you do. She
 glad to go, I tell you, sir," persisted Mrs Pole.
 t.But then the fading girl spoke.
 t="Oh, no, nursei Not glad to go. Re 1 signed, submissive, but, oh not gladl'' sh
 cried in an impassioned tone. Not glad
 now that you are herei" she added, turnin
 her dark eyes on the young man. "I woul like to live now. Oh, indeed would, if th I Lord were wiIling.1
 "Dear little Palma, you must lvei Yo
 shall 1ive!" murmured Cleve Stuart, smoott
 ing her hair with his hand and speaking fro1
 the pity, not from the love of his heart, an
 deceiving himself into the belief that b spoke in all sincerity.
 fI thank and bless youl I know I nee not die if you could keep me alive,' sh
 murmured gratefully; but her voice was yer
 faint.
 q think you had better go now, sir. do, indeed. All this talk has tired her s much she is almost exhausted and need
 rest, :" said Mrs. Pole.
 Stuart took up his hat, but Palma held or
 her hand impIoringly:
 .Oh, don't leave mel Stay with me g long as you can. Please doIe she pleaded.
 "I would stay with you always, if mighi
 dear child" he gently replied, drawing U 4c.L