The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1886-02-14

I
of his friend, he left in his possession draft for
81 000 which Longhurst lost no time in convert
ing into Bank of England notes.
The stormy March twilight was closing in.
Miss Bellward sat alone in the drawing room.
listening to the wind as it Numbered about the
house, and gazing into the fire with her large,
sad-looking eyes. Suddenly, at the sound of
| firm, impetuous knock at the street-door, the
color rushed into her face. and her heart beat so
violently that it seemed as if you could hear it
No. she had not been mistaken as to the knock,
In moment more the door opened and the
| servant announced, 'Mr. Longhurst"
| The door closed again, and they stood facing
| one another. There something in his look,
just visible in the twilight at which she iinched.
and she began timidly for one who was not lack
| ing in courage:
''You have come to-"
ITO pay your he Missed between his teeth,
coming close to her. and fairly striking her hand
| with the roll of notes he held in his exultant,
| triumphant rage.
| Reginald" she said, pleadingly, but he went
| on, every word coming with calm, concentrated
| bitterness:
"After the way in which we parted, how dare
| you to put this humiliation upon mea Did you
| think should not come to hear Of it2 Do you
| think that in my grave could have rested with
one farthing left unpaidl say again, how dared
| you do ita How dared you give what would
| rather die than accept from the woman who
| chose to shatter my lfe forsooth, because Of a
| few impatient wordsl But, pardon me- came
not to talk with you, but to pay you!"
| And crowding the notes into her hand and
fastening her fingers tightly upon them, he left
her without another word, while she with low
moan sank down like one stricken.
But after that interview the heart in Reginald
| seemed to fail him for everything Did he give
| the finishing touches TO his pcture4 Who shall
| sayf Anyhow his name was not among the
artists exhibiting at the Academy But Edward
| Fullertons was, and he rushed into fame sud
| denly. His picture, which was called 1.-THE
Shadow of Death, represented girl and man
on the point of parting. The man, evidently
| rejected lover, was kneeling, and raising to the
| half turned her face away as If to conceal the
| look of WEAKNESS upon it. Towering close be-
| hind them. unseen by either of them yet over
| shadowing them, was the awful figure of DEATH
| with grim, fateful smile which seemed to say:
What matters it9 In such little while, for
you who love and for her who loves not, it shall
| all be as one You are broken hearted and she
| is weary, and you see not that l am close at
| hand"
| In this case success in art meant success in
| love; for all who knew her at all said that the
girl OF Fullerton's choice would never have mar
| ried him unless he had done something to dis
tinguish himself, They said that he knew it,
| too. aud that the knowledge had stimulated him
| into doing that noble work. So the aesthetic
| circle gushed over Fullerton and his bride, and
made quite pretty little romance out of them
| Longhurst took to painting again, and had
picture wel-hung in one Of the galleries. IA
good picture enough in ITSELF" said the critics,
| "but so dreadfuy under the influence of Fuller
toni Fullerton's touch-Fullerton's choice of
subject-Fullerton's very method of color-in
| fact, everything but Fullerton's peniusl"
! Finding it vain to compete with his successful
| rival, Reginald devoted himself almost entirely
to journalism But in the small still hours-still,
| except for the wandering cats, an occasional
| hanson, or the shrek of some woman drunken
| or i'll used, or it might be both-he managed to
| write novel.
To his surp rise it was accepted! Nay more, he
could see that the publishers were pleased with
what they had got and evidently hoped good
things from it. But man does not burn the
| candle at both ends as Reginald hac done, with
out paying for it heavily. He corrected the last
| revses in bed. the hand in which he held the
| pen burning like live coal. his resolute eyes
| combating the type that they might decipher the
text But at last the work was done, and while
for once burst of applause greeted the first i'm
| portant effort OF new writer, the new writer
himself lay stricken on his bed. in all the hor
| rors of brain fever-from which, however, he
| awoke one day to life and consciousness.
| man was standing by the bedside, in whose
features Reginald slowly recognized that hand
some cousin, William ASH of whom he had once
| planned. as soon as Reginald could hear and un-
derstand him, that he had then the distinction of
being Rose Bellwards n-law, having
married Clara.
you," he said, land when we heard, through
mutual friend, how i'll you were. we took room
| in the house to look after you; that is all"
| II thank you from the bottom of my heart"
said the sick man; and then Clara. who had been
out, came in, and laughed good deal and cried
a little and let fall something about Rose being
| so glad to learn that he was better, and at the
mention of that name Reginald looked ashamed
| and turned his face away:
weeks time the invalid was strong enough to
be removed to the ASKS PLEASANT home at Ken
sington, with an old-fashioned, high-walled gar
den at the back. xned with pear trees, where you
could cit and dream that you were miles away
from the largest city in the world, and where
Reginald did sit. feeling not unpleasantly weak
but unpleasantly abashed for some things in his
past life. And there Clara and her husband read
to him the wonderful critiques on his novel; and
| there he read whole heap of letters from edit
ors and publishers alike beseeching the favor of
his pen. Fame was his already, and fortune lay
before him.
One day, May day, and warm day, too. he
was sitting by himself on the garden seat, when
some came out of the house toward him.
There was no mistaking the undulating grace of
that walk.
GOOD morning." she said. in the low voice
which had In 1t a note of very special and plead
ing music. 'you are getting stronger now
every day. are you mott No. don't try to rise
Il am going to sit down beside you. Do you
know what day it isl"
/ mo, lose count of days in this pleasant
languor of convalescence."
ut is the 25th of May-my birthday
us it, indeed, the 25thf Then | wish Won all
happiness-if still may do sof" and his hand
reached out and faltered on hers She did not
try TO draw hers away. and there was silence
between them. His eyes yearned into hers
which filed and shone with quivering tears
Don't mind me- she murmured, "but can
not help thinking of old days to-day"
Rose he said, taking her hand now in both
of his, "Rose, is it forever impossible that we
should go back to old days--ony with man
deeply ashamed and penitent FOR things done in
the pasti'
Dear" she replied, coming close to him
while his arm went round her and folded her to
his side-.'it is better far to be unhappy some
times. and nanny somatimes togethsr than for