Richmond dispatch. [volume] (Richmond, Va.) 1884-1903, 1889-04-21

props, assurances, proofs, that he was
not vile? Then, in moment ehe TO-
Tented. The world had treated him 30
i'll that he doubted every one he was
mistrustftil because 80 sorrowful, SC
deeply injured, so much misunderstood.
al have my proof" she said gently
" all the proof need. You see, Geoi-
frey, they do not know you. l know
you, dear. "
He had turned away abruptly to the
window he made no answer now he
was looking away from her, looking alb
sently out at the one or two passersby
aud the bright lights in the windows OPP
posite. For many days past. when men
had looked sskance at him, with doubt
in their glances, he had held his head
erect, walked self-contained among them,
almost believed in himself. He remcm-
bered now. with most painful distinct
ness, that the smallest faith in him was
faith misplaced. How could he &C
cept such faith as hers, let her
link her life with his, and make
no sign? 1t was too cruel, too mean
thing to do He had committed
worse sins, perhaps; but those against
whom he had committed them had not
been like Mary, had never trusted HIM
with this foolish trust, had never been
pure enough to believe him good. Years
ago. sometimes, noble impulse would
stir him strangely, sway him with q
passionate excitement, hold him Tor
minutes space, and make him, IN emo
ton. in righteous intention, hero
there was some such lost feeling stirring
him now again his thoughts leaped
forward to a heroic purpose, and for a
minute his heart beat faster, all his
pulses throbbed. Next minute the i'm
pulse was dead ; he looked back at 1t
with little mental smile. he turned
away slowly from tho window ana
crossed to the sofa, where Mary sat.
She was sitting near the fire in the
light and warmth, and he seated himself
beside her. Alter all, if Mary believed
in him. she had her reward. Her faith
was misplaced, but it made her happy.
He took her hands IN his, and her eyes
and lips smiled as he raised her face.
"What do they all say, Mary?" he
asked. "Your love is binding you-is
that what they tell you? And your
faith in me is foolishness-is that 1T
Your father would be better pleased II
you gave me up"
"No, no ! You must not be angry
with fsther-you will bear with him,
Geoffrey. 1t is only that he does not
understand be wishes us to defer the
Marriage"
land you agree?" -.
"No-I have told him wish 1t could
be sooner. | wish we could be married
now-now, to-day-wbile you are wor-
ried, before all these troubles are for
gotten and explained away.
"And suppose-for the sake OF suppo-
sition, Mary-suppose they are never
explained away? Suppose the suspicion
against me is never removed 2"
"Ob, but it viii be. By and by it
must be. Sooner or latter the truth Il
always known"
But the optimistic promise did not
strike him cheerfully. She looked al
him straight, with trustful, steadfasi
eyes 1t was only by a conscious effort
that he met her glance.
"And if the truth is ever known, y
she continued after a moment, "we can
still be happy. 1t is hard for you-oh,
it is dreadfully hard | never knew be-
fore that the world was so cruel. People
are blind, unjust Do not let lis talk OF
il. You bear it so bravely, and II
cannot bear to think of it. 1t seems
foolish to talk of myself when you have
borne so much but oh, l have been so
wretched-so wretched, Godfrey ! When
you did not come, and day after day
went. it seemed-it seemed as though
you did not think me strong enough 70
share your troubles with you"
alt is not a gracious task, Mary. to
come TO tie ones burdens about those
one loves. Even now | hesitate. You
are generous. But is that any reason
why | should accept your sacrifice?
am asking you to accept the shadow OF
my disgrace-do You wonder, Mary, that
| cannot ask it readily ?"
"Bnt what is the disgrace ?" she rea-
soned. "Why should we think of it
1t is a disgrace which the world has put
upon us--that is all-and We ourselves
know ourselves undisgraced. 1t is {
very foolish old world. Let us laugh a.
it."
eyes, we can langh," he agreed.
ave are not dependent on its gooC
opinion. What is the good or i'll opinion
OF a silly old world that misjudges YOU
"Nothing." he agreed again. But hi
was agreeing absently his attention haC
wandered. For few minutes he anC
Mary sat side by side in silence. Hi
spirits were very heavy Mary, lookini
closely at him, recalled her own high
and cherry tone with feeling OF re
morse.
MARY" he said suddenly, turnin(
eagerly toward her, "tell me-do
make you happy ? You have been hap
pier since you knew me. You are happ,
now. Tell me that 1 make you happy.
"But you know it, she said grsyely
"Yes, yes, know it," he repeated.
al want to hear you say it. l shall de
vote my life to securing your happi
ness, MtID. \ " III ihcAO Ou hoPPJs
can-and L will"
He spoke as though he needed to reas
sure himself. When he had written hi
letter to her yesterday, his words o
self-sacrifee had been merely words
now, again and again, they came bacl
TO him as q serious thought. He wa
guilty, and she believed him true. Thi
sin OF deceiving her was meannes
which seemed to him worse than sin
He was unworthy even of himself iii
this thing which he was doing. But h
would make Der hsppy-yes, that wa
his excuse, in that was his justification
And yet =.
"How long, / wonder, shall | max
you happy" he said speculatively, look
ing fxedly yet absently before him.
"How long ?" she repeated. Sh
could not understand his mood tonight
But she was very sorrowfnl and pitifu
for him SO many friends bad failed hir
that he doubted even her constancy.
was natural, she supposed.
"By and by" he continued, "whe
your love wears out, your happiness an
your faith will wear out too.