The Superior times. [volume] (Superior, Wis.) 1870-1912, 1886-07-10

hours FOUND us might De an ABIDING guest.
| Amen and amen!
She had learned already to translate the
| expression of my face, and something that
she row discovered there troubled her.
"What is it, Harvey she asked. What
has Mr. Warner been saying to you? Moth
ing unpleasant, hope.
| In few words told her just what he
| had said A quick shudder convulsed her;
| she closed her eyes, and for a moment lay
| still and passive In my arms.
L hate the past, she said, at length,
with a passionate outburst such as some
times showed what a soul of fire dwelt in
| that slight frame. Often I think it is all
| dream; and but that you, my husband.
have come to me out of it, should be sure
it is nothing bat horrid nightmare. Why
must We always think of it? Why must
these people forever talk to you about it,
Surely, could they know how happy we
are, they would not wish to plague us with
questions about those dreadful weeks and
their scenes"
Her slender white fingers covered her
face, as if to shut from her sight the spec
tiers conjured up ~ her own words To
tell her all that Mr. Warner had said-to
give to her, the young bride of a month,
the forcible reason that had impressed me
with the belief that his request should be
complied with, was q delicate task: and
when / had given her that reason blush
covered her face, and it was hidden again
upon my shoulder. She was silent for a
long time, and gently asked:
What say you, Paula? | will do moth
ing without your consent.
Her eyes again sought my face They
were filed with serene faith.
"My husband, you know best.
l kissed her fondly.
But, Paula, this is not quite all. So
clearly has the lawyer put this matter to me
so certain | am that it is no less than a
solemn duty to put the whole truth and all
its details in q form that will protect those
who will come after us, and vindicate our
own memories, that in this last half hour
the wish has possessed me that the story
might be told as perfectly as may be. Your
face tells me that you understand what this
means. You know that there are parts of
the tale that cannot tell. / can guess
them; so can others; there is only one who
can tell them perfectly? Shall 1t all be
told?"
She did understand me; deep sigh told
me that my meaning was plain to her.
do you really wish it, Harvey?"
Il greatly wish it; but rather than give
never more speak of it. Doas you please
If you can join me in this labor we will
together tell the story as 1t never has been
told; as it ought to be told; and we can
than feel that duty has been performed
that would clamor al us all our lives for
performance, and perhaps haunt US in our
moments of deepest pleasure. With this
done, we can cast forever behind us the
ghostly figures, the appalling scenes that
start out of the shadows of the past; We
can forget it al all, save that, by dismal,
storm beaten roads, and through thick
darkness, we two wandered out into the
sunshine of love and happiness. 1t is the
voice of duty, Paula. that appeals to us.
So it seems to me. Yet, my beloved wife,
choose for yourself. may be wrong; your
finer sense may correct me.
And she, clasping my neck with her arms,
drew my face down to her and tenderly
kissed me.
L will do it, Harvey" she simply said,
because you wish it.
This is how the present narrative comes
to be written.
CHAPTER Ill
This is to be an exact history. All that
there is in my life of particular moment
and the record embraces very brief period
is to be told with the most scrupulous
exactness. Let it be understood, then,
that this is no mere literary effort Here
will be no attempt at fine writing" no
fiorid descriptions of natural scenery: no
sentimental reflections; no eloquent pas
sages. Those who are fond of romance
because romance embraces such things,
must seek them in the pages of romance.
| have to deal simply with stern facts, and
&c nhan tha ord of
narrative to speak of my own thoughts or
feelings. it will be only because the situa-
ton will call for such an expression.
And first, of myself My name is Har-
vey Minton; my age is thirty; / have been
| an orphan since | can remember. The
| grudging charity of maternal uncle for
! whom l was named educated me; and with
my graduation at college came cold but
polite note from my wealthy relative in
| closing check for one hundred dollars,
expressing the satisfaction of the writer
that | had so well improved my opportuni-
| ties, and distinctly informing me that
need expect no more aid from him. The
| letter stung me; but it stimulated me as
well. My uncle might have notified me OF
| his intentions in kinder terms, | thought
| but no matter; he should see that his
nephew did him no discredit l wrote a
note in reply, thanking him for his kind
| ness, and that closed all communication
! between US. To-day know not whether
/ he is alive or dead-whether in the wide
world | have a living relative by blood.
| And what matter? Have [ not Paula?
! What should | do in life? There could
! be but one answer to this question. AL
most from boyhood / had been captivatec
! by the desire to be physician. ! had be-
! come an enthusiast in this direction. The
unutterable toll, the WEAKNESS, the
| long days of labor
| And nights devoid of ease,
which must ever be the attendants of thi:
most useful of all professions, weighed as
nothing with me. In brief, this was my
| chosen field; | was an enthusiast in it
taste, natural desire, everything, joined tC
! place me in this path. And it was nc
| chance, no mere accident that controlled
my choice Very clearly do | now see, as
| the reader will presently see, that 1 had q
| destiny to fulfill; that other lives were &c
| be powerfully influenced by mine; and that
in this sphere only could the results be ac-
| complished that | have attained.
The struggle was a hard one. For q
penniless adventurer such as 1 vas to win
a liberal profession which would qualify me
| to go forth and successfully compete Will
| thE HSuItlll, TIC ltdIutu, anu TIE powerful
upon their own chosen ground, and wiz
/ success among them, was the task of 0
| Hercules. My struggles, nv poverty, my
daily and nightly battlings for success in
these years, are not here to be described;
am but one of thousands who have pre-
vailed over
Those twin iailers of the daring heart
! Low birth and iron fortune.
| My long course at the university was al
| last ended, and though did not carry of
the first honors of my class, nv name stood
high on the roll. and / had the satisfaction
of knowing that my diploma was deserved
There was but one of my class to whom
| felt particularly drawn. He was a care
less, merry fellow. Albert Winfield by
name, whose aversion to study was almost
balanced by an occasional squirt of industry
with which he would pull up on his stand
! ing. To the others l babe farewell without
| particular emotion: with this man, as we
stood together in the mingled shade and
moonlight under the old elms of the campus
the night before We were to quit the place
1t was hard to part. He was to 90 cast
west; when and where should we NEE,
| again?
It's question neither of us can answer,