Essex County herald. [volume] (Guildhall, Vt.) 1873-1964, 1886-01-22

seven years OF my lie until now. small
| tell it you now ? Or can you trust me
that it is nothing which ought to part
lis and would you rather wait to hear it
until tomorrow Z"
could trust him; ay, rather, could
not distruSt him; and told him so. Let
us live this day out without a shadow;
afterward, if shadows must come, he
should lead me safely through them.
"There is no danger in the shadow,
Annie; there is only something for us
both to forget"
'Let us forget it now, then. See, there
is Aunt Margaret at the window signing
to me; she is afraid | shall let her neigh
Dor so offend against her good sold-
fashioned hospitality as to go away to his
bachelors hail. when it is three o'clock
and our dinner hour"
The shortest day of all the year We
were watching its setting from the libra
ryswindcw. we two leftalone, for Madge
and Fanny had driven into the village
for the mail, and Aunt Margaret was
summoned to one of those kitchen-cabi-
net councils which grew more and more
frequent under old tethe's administra-
ton. SO we two were standing together
in the bay-window, watching the Grim
son glow fade off from the wide snow
stretch of lawn that sloped down to the
lane, dotted here and there with black
green pyramid of fir, between the naked
oaks, when presently | caught sight of
something moving across their shadows
flung stiff and dark across the white.
"Some one is coming" l said, break
ing the happy silence. GA lady, I
thought-thOugh wonder who it could
be, walking"
'What a bOrel"
ooh, she'll not be shown in here, un-
less you feel disposed to go to Aunt Mar
garet's assistance"
Here saw the side door of the library
opening from the lawn. The visitor
must have observed us at the window; !;
some one on sufficiently unceremonious
terms.
1t was Il stranger.
She had closed the door behind her,
and had come forward into the full glow
of the wood fire blazing on the hearth.
A stranger certainly; If l had ever seen
her before, I should never have forgotten
her.
She was standing on the hearth, and
drew her slender gloved hands out of the
folds of her cashmere shawl, holding
them to the warmth, before she turned to
us the fairest face have ever seen--the
fairest face one ever dreamed. Only that
would have been a strange, Fouque-like
dream in which such vision should
come.
1t could not have been fter-knowledge
on my part for before she spoke, while
she still frontcd us with that gay smile
upon her perfect lips, ] thought of I'm
dine in her soullcss loveliness, light
hearted, glad, careless of others pain be-
cause she could not feel it. There is
the Undine nature in a child too, for
whom there exists no pain that does not
bruise its own tender flesh, and that soft
hardness made itself felt in every line
and curve about this woman, as she stood
there, white and golden, looking at us
out of those great brilliant eyes, of which
I have read somewhere:
"Alive in their depths,a ,as the Kraken beneath
the sea blue
eyes which would fain have followed,
for they fixed themselves on Brian. Only
| could not, that face so held me.
"They told me at your house that you
were here; and so l came" she said, still
looking at Brian.
| turned and looked at him too then
the clear, soft, shallow, child voice broke
the spell.
But he never saw me. His eyes were
riveted on her-just as a man might look
who sees a ghost.
And then she smiled. She had been
beautiful before, but now her beauty was
bewildering. She stretched out her hands
to him.
"Have you never word of welcome,
Brian, for your wife z"
He drew long, hard breath, and
passed his hand heavily over his eyes.
He never once glanced my way, though
l felt he saw me all the while. He
answered her very slowly:
'How is it you are not dead, Louise
For nearly seven years you have allowed
me to believe you were"
She laughed mocking little laugh.
Though she did not turn toward me, !
knew she had flashed glance at me.
''Have you been disconsolate widower
all that time, my poor Brian? 1t was
very wicked of me, of course. But
then, you see, | always hated poverty
and you were so very impecunious at that
time, I really thought it better to die of
| your hands"
Here she turned suddenly to me with q
sweet graciousness of manner, while hei
eyes, alive with mocking spirits, looked
me through and through.
'My husband is a little remiss at in.
Productions, so find | must make my
self known to you, as | see you are one
1 of his friends Every one has skeleton
in his closet, you know, and l present
| you to Brian's."
She made a playful courtesy as she
spoke
"Only he fancied it was laid away un.
dergroundn she added. ''Perhaps he
has told you of our runaway match wher
he was at college, and how angry poor
mamma was, and hushed the matter up
and carried me away to Europe to tinisl
my school days there. And there it wa'
that mamma made her brilliant second
marriage-a real, true German baron ant
we went away to Vienna to live. Bu
! first died; for one must die-must no
one?-to get into paradise. Brian would
never have let me go there alive, so
sent him lock of my hair and a littl'
scrawling deathbed note inclosed in
letter from mammals maid, who hat
helped us to run away the year before
You remember Fi6ne, Brian? She ha'
come over with me now. Such cleve
soul! can't tell how should
ever, without her, have man
| aged to keep myself informed