The clarion. [volume] (Jackson, Miss.) 1883-1888, 1885-05-06

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himself"
He Is most kind. and has evidently
I been very anxious, feeling. l suppose, !
/ responsible for the accident Mother.
you must ask him to call
So 3 note was dispatched TO the
/ Lodge, and Sylvia, in graceful invalid's
+ toilet, sat awaiting their visitor that
evening.
The servant tells me his name Is
i Mr.. Holcamp,' said the mother, enter
+ ING.
Mrs. Devine had been absent during
the time Of young Holcamp's stay in
+ the town of the previous summer. and
+ her daughter, through feeling of shy
+ ness, had not mentioned the episode
+ which had entered into her life during
I the period OF her absence; nor had Val
+ entIne HOlcamp stopped at the Lodge. .
+ or even mentioned his connection with !
/ his uncle, consequently Sylvia grew
/ suddenly pale at the mention Of the
+ name so familiar to her. and Mrs. De
vine was entirely unprepared Tor the
/ startling change in her daughter at
/ this period.
What is it, child-why did YOU
/ start2''
"Oh-nothing. murmured Sylvia, (
/ looking away quickly,
But when. shortly after, Valentine /.
Holcamp appeared Before her she found I.
herself trembling from head to foot. In
a normal state of health this would i.
not have been the case. But the sur-s
/ prise had been too much for her in her ;
| weakened condition.
! In her effort to appear controlled she /
recsYed him in manner seemingly /
cold
The interview was very brief and /
formal. though her mothers cordiality I
made up for it in part
Without urging q second visit from /
the occupant of Lyudermere Lodge, /
! Sylvia asked him to send Jem. who, /
she said. was in no manner to blame, /
as he had not seen her when he took /
his position in the tree.
Jem came-0nce, twice At the /
second visit to say goodbye. They !
were going away again. he said; his /
uncle was to join some friends on /
trip of travel in Europe; he, Jem, !
meanwhile to be sent to school
Six months have passed away.
Sylvia, in mourning garb, stands /
alone in the house that for 50 many
years has smiled upon her in peace and |
pleasantneSs.
Her mother is dead.
Tomorrow the furniture and books, /
which they have together used and pc |
rused, are to be stored and packed |
away, and Sylvia will seek her abode
among distant relatives in q faraway
city.
Gently she lifts one and another of
s0HCeHtr albums and pretty gifts one /
had bestowed upon tne other at differ
ent birthdays and holidays
She Is looking at a book of poems
she had been reading aloud to her
mother during the summer evenings
preceding the arrival OF Valentine HoI- /
camp.
When her mother left home to make /
her visit, the book had remained where /
she had left it, upon the sitting-room
table; Tor after her departure Sylvia /
had dipped into another poem, which !
/ absorbed her for the time quite beyond 1
any she had ever read.
Now she lifted it tenderlv-tears |
rushed to her eyes. This was linked /
with love that would never die-the /
sweet fidelity OF a mothers love. How |
the other poem had died, shrivelled in /
to bitter dregs.
The one she wept over; the other she |
thought Of with a cold sneer.
Slowly, softly. she turns the leaves. /
A bOOk-mark falls into her lap. then a /
thin soft envelope, a delicate flower /
doubtless pressed within tit was a 1
habit of her mothers to press her IA !
yomte blooms thus-but no, this is q
directed note. and moreover, one di- !
rected to herself.
The paper is fattened and somewhat /
yellowed-it has evidently lain there /
long.
1t is sealed-has never been opened. /
She wonderingly tears it open ard 1
reads:
DEAR FRIEND.-Can you forgive my /
departing thus suddenly without a word of |
explanation? ! am Obliged to leave in des- /
perate haste. If we never meet again, be-
lieve me- it is best for YOU that 1t should be /
so. If we do meet III the future ,and | still !
family hope it IS your wish as well as my |
own that we should, may hope, also, you /
viii meet me with the smile OF our present |
friendship.-GOurS, IN regret, and yet IN
fond faith,
VALENTINE HoLCANIP"
She looked at the date.
1t had been written the day before
his departure the previous summer.
The note had come, and their attend
ant. a strange girl, had forgotten to
| tell her of its arrival
| And in all that time she had done
/ him this injustice in her thoughts. And
when at last they had met, she had not
received him with a smile of friendship,
/ and he had left her again without the
1 answer he had hoped for.
The day waned, and once more Syl-
via Devine seeks the haunt now doubly
] I. Il gts,r,. ~
| Lyndermere Lodge.
With the letter she had found crushed
/ tight against her heart, she gazes to-
wards the lonely hermitage, wonder
/ inc. with a newly-awakened sweet
interest, where its owner IS now wan
! dering, and ponders for the first time
/ with feelings unmingled with bitterness
what was the mystery of his life that
/ he had withheld from her.
The loneliness OF her life-its crushed
/ prospects-crowd upon her, and over
/ whelm her. She bursts into tears.
In the midst of her grief she hears a
horse galloping down the road.
She can see from where she stands
/ that it is a man riding him, and the
equestrian turns into the drive at Lyn-
dermere Lodge.
For a moment she marvels at this,
for the place has again been silent for
so long.
As she gazes, she sees lights blinking
| out from the windows. Smoke, too,
floats up from the chimney.
Is it possible2
But he dares hardly harbor the
thought.
She takes courage presently. how
| ever. and with decided step and beat
inr heart she turns and walks into the
direction of Lyndermere Lodge.
She stops not till she reaches the
door
She knocks
Then for the first time her courage
fails, and feeling of utter faintness
! overcomes her.
She sees a glow of light-a face stern
and pale, yet familiar withal-and
then she sees no more.
For the second time in his life, Val
entine Holcamp holds within his arms
the form of the woman he has loved,
vet failed to win for his own.
He had taken the crushed letter from
her hand, and is scanning the envelope.
when at last her eyes open upon him
again.
Il never saw IT until half an hour
ago she murmurs. Forgive me.
and tell me what it all means. Why
did you go away that summer? Why
did you never say your uncle lived
here9''
But he, too, is slow to comprehend
why she has come to him thus of her
own free viii. He cannot believe that
| it is all real
"Ten me. Sylvia, dear one-tell me