Savannah morning news. [volume] (Savannah) 1868-1887, 1884-02-17

mad neglected and forgotten her; but she
was very lonesome, and had been for
many days, and though, in her heart, she
resented his Indifference, she was marvel
ously glad to see him come nearer and
nearer. She thought she should Ike any
one, even an enemy, TO sit with her IN the
deep, cool shade and talk. 1t seemed
ages since she had seen him or any one,
and then. as she watched him he looked
so like her dear old uncle, and reminded
her so pleasantly OF the pleasant study
where she used to be so happy, and where
she had not been for so long.
He was walking straight on, and would
soon be lost in the great house talking
with her grandmother, and she would
have to 20 in to see him. This would be
a stuff and embarrassing thing to do she
knew; and, then, there was no telling how
far the prophecies might be carried. She
might not even be sent for at all, and so
miss him entirely. Yes: and he was go
ing fast-fast; he had almost reached the
terrace. when, Obeying a sudden impulse,
she walked quickly behind the orange
hedge and cut off his advance.
rs it you, sir?" she asked, cana were
you coming to see us?7
She looked bright and pleasantly ex-
cited, not worn and sad as he had feared.
and her bright, young face was pleasant
to his eyes.
at is 1, Charlie. and was not coming
to see us but you"
"Well, then, perhaps you would not
mind sitting out here on this bench; and,
then, it is so dreary inside"
''Certainly," he said. at would be a
delightful combination"
"W hat cOmbination!' she asked, little
pertly.
"Why, the sunshine, and the flowers,
and you, with the order reversed
Il am hOmesick for my uncle Henry and
aunty. How are they?'
Only father is better to-day. Mother is
quite Well.''
"Betterw she exclaimed, looking really
distressed. "Is he sick?"
"Iie has been ever since your fathers
death, Charlie. You surely must have
known, for polite message came daily
from you asking about him.
"A polite message, indeed | never
sent one; l never knew a word of it all.
Do you think l should have trusted to pO-
lite messages if l had known he was sick?
No, indeed! Twenty grandmOthers co Ild
not have kept me back. Oh! what must
he think Of his child to treat him so?
What must he think? -
My mother is a shreWd woman,
Charlie, and long ago settled this matter
to our satisfaction. She said you were
not allowed to know Of my fathers IL
ness.v
Il could kiss auntle tor her shrewdness.
That was just it! never dreamed of it,
never knew, never was allowed to hear
anything. Oh! l do wonder if grand
mother will let me die when my time
comes. l know she won't. And that's
the reason you have not been just once
even to ask after me. You could not
leave him; and l have thought you
strangely fOrgetful lIinsman.'
/. ~ a.. =.
her handsome home, in her black dress;
looked SO thwarted and so oppressed, that
the man looking at her felt a strong wish
to carry her of bodily to his mother,
where she would find not tenderness only,
but justice always. He took one of
her hands moment, just a moment, in
his own, for he was not of the demOnstra-
tive sort, and said in the kindest possible
tone:
'No, Charlie; my fathers sickness did
not keep me. He was not i'll enough for
that. l came often, quite often, but was
always told that you did not feel that you
could see company, and so | had to go off
again. 1t was trying, but l had to sub
nit"
One Of her old ungOvernable fits of tenn
per Overcame her at this, and, with a
flushed face and flashing eyes, she said:
Il have been living Il miserable. hypO-
NAAbACtti AAAN oAAANN hiCN " al &
We shut the doors ana windows and wear
heavy black dresses, and grandmother
tells us every day how miserable we all
are. But it is not so! We are not mis-
cradle. Mamma is cheerful and happy,
and Z, Oh! | don't regret my poor papa
one bitl l didn't know him. | didn't
love him, and it distressed me to know
he was sick and suffering, and | fear, oh!
sometimes, fear l am relieved that he is
gone. All! l am cruel, heartless and
unfeeling, you think, but | am not by
pOcrite. Yet, it seems hard, hard that
papa was kind to so many people, and no.
bOdy-nObOdy regrets him."
Under all this impetuOus outcome of
rebellion, her listener could discern
plainly the honest scorn of pretense
which her rapid words exposed. lie had
never felt so pitiful for her as nOW; never
felt that there was so much excuse for
her, so much reasOnableness in her rebel
lion.
'SChild," he said, ''dOn't think that this
ceremOniOus display of distress which it
pleases your grandmother to institute is
misunderstood; certainly not, by those
who know better. Your stepmOther, no
doubt, feels the loss of a true friend, but
she is quite young, and the future looks
fair before her. You were too much a
stranger to feel daughters true devotion
to your father; and, besides all this, when
one dies of a prOtracted and suffering ill
ness, it very much lessons the distress of
the truest friends when their trials cease.
1 could not imagine you hypOcritical un-
der any circumstances. Happily, your
defects don't lie Just in that direction.
wish could take you home with me for
this one day at least. l fancy the sight of
you would complete my fathers cure.
Suppose you 90 in and tell Mrs. Beltham
that | have come for you"
sit would do no sort of good" she said,
despOndingly; "but," and her face bright
ened with a sudden happy inspiration,
''yOu 90 and ask her-wOuld you mind ?''
Certainly not; will 90 this minute.
should have asked her many times before,
but 1 hardly know her. Tve not seen her
in many years"
you say you don't know my grand
mOther?'
Il think l should not''
'What a fortunate, happy man! Walk
in, now, and sit here,1' she said, as they
entered the house, land l will call my
grandmamma."
Upstairs, having done all her hands had
found to do, and done it well, sat Mrs.
Beltham, putting some finishing touches
to a set of Grape collars and cuffs for Mrs.
Barrett. She looked alert and cheerful.
The pleasant afternoon sunshine streamed
in at the open windows, and Annie sat
IuIl III II, watching ueI HOln6IfS Tdplu
fingers with quiet content. Charlie, al
ways impulsive, dashed in upon these two,
all hurry and excitement.
GRANDMOTHER" she began; but Mrs.
Beltham held up a warning finger to silence
her.
"Charlie, that is not the tone and voice
for a house of mourning; it is so hard to
impress you with matters of prOpriety.
Now, be gentle; speak low and l Will lis
ten. WellT'
81 was just going to tell YOU" she
whispered, ''that Mr.. Fearne, my cousin,
is down stairs, and wants very particu-
larly to see yOu.'
''Did Lucindy have the boldness to ask
him inside? l mean did Lucindy ask him
in, when she knows we see no oneY'
mo, ma'am; | asked him in.'
"Well! well! l sometimes think you
are certainly the strangest-but, l sup
pose, had better see him, Annie-a sort
of family connection, you know"
Il surely would, mOther,' she answer
ed, with a kindly look at Charlie.
Every we'll. Charlie, just hand me a
black-bordered handkerchief from the
drawer, and put a little eau de cologne
on it; and let me see! | believe | must
change my cap. By the way, Annie, do
put on your cap; you might be seen from
the window, and what would people think
of young widow without one. Come