The clarion. [volume] (Jackson, Miss.) 1883-1888, 1886-09-22
CHAPTER XVII.

All this time, there had been double Shad-
ow on my life; for not only was it darkened
by my unfortunate and despairing passion,
but by anxiety for my uncle. | alone, of all
who knew and loved him, guessed the true
cause of the sorrow which made him.
LAS tree incineth weak and bare
Under its unseen load of wintery air"
bend lower and lower with a mysterious
burden; so that although not an Old man,
he had become prematurely inlirm. He still
went about his daily work in the mine; but
feebly, mechanically. and very silently; hut
in the long evenings he sat brOOding by the
1ireside, starting at the sound of foot with
out OF knock at the door, but otherwise
showing little or no interest in the affairs of
life.
Poor Annie noticed the change, and Sc
cretly repToaching herself as the cause, was
ever watchful to attend his slightest wish,
to answer his most careless look. Her moth
er's sternness panied her, after all, infinitely
less than the sad endurance of one who had
ever been the tenderest of fathers. And the
change reflected herself in her; so that no
one would have recognized, in the pale, suf-
fering woman, the happy, gentle girl who
had once been the light of a humble home.
All this troubled me greatly, and made me
naturally anxious to leave the scene of SO
much pain. Had been able in any way to
heal the wounds that misfortune had made,
had | even been able to speak with free
heart of the trouble which, in one shape or
another, was weighing upon us all, it might
have been different; but l was utterly help
less. Combined with my great grief, came
oftentime a great dread-lest others should
| discover what was still an unspoken secret
between my uncle and myself. So. in my
despair of being of any service, l could not
halY ba hour. Tha flatr
when L was to leave St. Gurlott's and repair
to my new place in the adjoining country.
! was anxious, too. to get away from the
district, where the engagement between
Madeline Graham and George Redruth was
/ a matter of common gossip; where / was
| tormented, dozen times day, by rumors
| of what was going on up at the great house.
| After our farewell, described in the last
| chapter, when my last hope left me, and
| there was nothing for it save to resign my
| self to the inevitable. | saw nothing more of
| Madeline; but a day or two later | heard
| that she had gone, accompanied by Redruth
| and his mother, TO London. and L knew, in
| some distant way, that the journey meant
| further preparations for the marriage. All
| this made me chafe and fret like man in
| chains; eager to breathe other air, and to put
solid earth between himself and his sources
| of torment.
| / had lost Madeline forever, that was clear:
indeed, had never had any hope or chance
| of gaining her; but the dead, cold certainty
| OF my loss was unendurable. If was to live
/ on, must exercise all the powers of my
| manhood, and endeavor to forget what had
/ been, at the best, only a foolish dream. So
| long as | remained in the neighbOrhood,
/ haunted by so many sweet memories and
| troublous associations, forgetfulness was of
| course impossible.
The evening before the day fixed for my
| departure, the gloom in the little cottage was
| greater than ever. All our hearts were full
Although l was only going away little dis
| Iance, and although had promised to revisit
my old home whenever an opportunity Of
fered, it seemed like parting with the old life
| forever. Ever since L was boy, had
dwelt there, with those good people, who
had stood to me in the place of father and
mother; my little world had been St Cur
lott's, my only home that humble cottage;
and should have been made of hard stuff
| indeed, If had failed to feel the parting.
We sat together round the fire. / tried to
assume cheerful tone, and talked hopeful
ly OF the future; but it was no use. Eager
as was to get away. | was no voluntary
exile. Where had lived so long, / would
have chosen to have lived and died.
Ny aunt who was busiIy knitting some
stockings to form part of my wardrobe. list
ened TO my bold talk. and dolefully shooE
her head.
Tis well to ha' light heart" she said
land it's easy when one is young. But the,
tell me Gwendoyey be lawnesome place
Not bit of it, answered. laughing.
Not half SO lonesome as St. Gurlott's.n
And it be so far-'tis bad as going acros:
the saer
At this / laughed again.
why. It's only seventy miles away as the
crow fiiesl A man might gaIiop it on good
horse in a few short hours. Then as to thu
mine itself, It's different to being under
ground, and. what's worse. under salt water
It's open to the sky, and cheerful as sunshine
| isn't ii, uncie?
Ny uncle. who occupied his usual place b,
the ingie, looked found vacantIy, and nod
| ded
sIss. lad, that be trueF'
Sunshine. did ZEE sayg' said my aunt
s.Therei II be nav sunshine for me or father
when our lad be gone. / dawn't knaw wha
father viii do with hissen. when you'm gone
You ha' been his right hand ever sin 70,
| was but child and now he be breaking
| like. hen miss thee more and more. But
: dawn't blame ZEE, lad You'm right to seel
| yonr fortin,; and this be poor place. Lori
knows, for bold lad like your
sHugh viii come back, mother, cried An
ME, who stood behind her fathers chair
-He is only going for awhile"
s-Of course j exclaimed s.Or, better still
9 IshalI make my fortune, as you sag, and y0l
win come over and live with ne.