The Penn's Grove record., 1886-03-13

taken Off her hat, and was swinging IL
in her hand. She showed NJ surprise
at seeing me there, but sat down be
side me and began to talk on indiffer-
emit subjects. L could not listen to her
i was in a fever of anxiety for Hugh's
arrival, and, after a little time [ saw
that she was ill at ease, that she evil
IDENTIFY had something of Importance to
say.
81 know you expected TO meet Hugh"
she said at length; ''but he was obliged
to go to London this morning on bust
ness.n
Ibid he leave no message for me?"
l asked, quite unable to control the un-
st~eadIness of my voice.
"Oh, yesl" she answered carelessly.
lie told me to tell you he had gone"
"But he should have told me him
selfr' l said p~assionately, and then
stopped short, for | was determined
not to give her the satisfaction of see
ing that l cared; and l knew she was
watching me keenly.
"WeN, 1 suppose he knew that best
himself" she replied coldly. 81 a
| only give you the message he left with
me-" and then we both sat silent.
knew she mad come there for a pur-
pose, and l waited to hear what 1t was.
BY no word or look of mine should she
receive any encouragement. She NOV
ed restlessly two or three times, and,
turning her head away from me, began
In a low unsteady voice, strangely I'M
like her usual clear full tones.
my mother told me,' she said,
''that she spoke to you last night about
an engagement that ono existed be.
tween Hugh and me-"
Yes" 1 answered quietly. | knew
now what was coming, and had braced
myself to bear it without llinching.
She went on hurriedly, after.a pause,
as if she wanted to get her task over
quickly.
81 suppose she told you how it was
broken off; and of course, when we
came here, we knew he was to marry
YOU"
"Yes,"I said again it was the only
word / could utter. My brain was
reeling, int her voice sounded a long
way off; but ] sat calm and still, wait
ing for what l well knew was coming.
Twas not prepared for her next move.
She suddenly threw herself upon her
knees before me, and, raising her eyes
streaming with tears, she sobbed out
ooh, Maggie, we love each other
still You will release him from his
promise-you will let him come back to
me? You can't love him as | do, as l
have done for years!'
Not love him as she did The words
made me almost smile i'll ms misery.
"Do you think" L sal proudly,
''that l would not marry any mar who
did not love me? If so, you IRE mis-
taken; you need not be the least afraid
of my being a bar to your happiness.
You can tell your lover that | release
him freely from his engagement, and |
wish him all the success he deserves "
She still crouched at my feet, and, as
l looked down on her, | acknowledged
her to be a beautiful woman and a
finished actress, and, as such, l admir-
ed her. Bur l felt l could have slam
her as she kuelt there, 50 unlike her
usual proud self, so humble and tear
full and passionate.
Maggie you are not angrYp" she
asked. "Will you forgive me for what
| have done? Remember he loved me
before he saw you"
81 am not likely to forget it," l said
bitterly. COZ urse | am not angry
with you; you are perfectly right TO act
as you are doing. It would have been
endless misery for both him and me If
| had married him IN ignorance and
discovered the truth afterwards"
AS | spoke. 1 rose to go. My strength
was failing, and | wanted to be alone
before l gave way. But she caught my
hand, and said eagerly
"You have been so good, Maggie, SO
unlike what L expected, that | know
you will do n more thing for me,
and that is, that you will write to
Hugh to ten him you have changed
your mind, instead of having an inter
view with him."
Whatever you like, " l said indiffer-
emily.
1t never struck me that the request
was a strange one; the n idea that
my mind could grasp was that | had
| lost Hugh for ever. and | no more
doubted the truth of her story than if
lie had told it to me himself.
AT last l got away, and hurried home
through the shady beauty of the wood,
like a hunted creature seeking a refuge
l knew that there, at least, l was sure
of love and sympathy, that there was
no fear of my being In the way OF hin
dering any ones happiness.
OF the days that followed l can write
nothing; it was a dark time in my life
which | cannot recall without a shud-
der. l wrote to Hugh as l had prom
ised, and received in answer a few for
x.aI 1I,na kIopIinp nna for NV nQnGr-
osity and saying that he should always
take an interest in my welfare, but
making not the slightest allusion to his
own prospects.
After that, my life settled down to a
dreary routine, which seemed as If 1t
would never be Uninterrupted. Hugh did
not return to the chase; and | was glad
of it, for l dreaded having to meet him
again. But Mrs. Hilliard and her
daughter remained there; and it some
times struck me as being strange that
Blanche's lover did not hasten back to
her side. However she said nothing
about it herself, and | was only too
thankful that the subject was avoided.
1t may have been fancy on my part;
but l certainly thought that she was
thinner and paler than when l first saw
her, and that her face had often an
anxious restless expression that was
foreign to it. But again | used to
think that it was only my own imagi-
nation, and that surely she could not
be unhappy when Hugh loved her. l
seldom saw her, as we mutually avoid
ed each other, and, if by accident we
met, our demeanor was constrained and
formal. A vivid remembrance of the
interview in the wood seemed present
to both of us.
And so the long hot summer days
went slowly by, and l never dreamed
of what was coming-had no idea but
that my present life would continue to
its end in the dull uneVentful routine
in which 1t was passed.
In the gray of the early dawn one
morning l was reused from sleep by a
summons to Blanche billiards. death
bed. After she had gone to her room
on the previous night, her dress had In