The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936, 1889-01-18

told me. ! could nor guess how or
where l should meet him, but the
next night when my cousin and / ar
rived at n musical party, my hostess
said to me in u pointed manner, with
q smile:
"Your friend is here tonight!"
"Who is my friend!" l thought
lessly inquired.
cyril Brownrigg," she answered
with laugh. "How will he greet his
brother and friend, ] wonder?"
felt myself growing scarlet with
shame and annoyance, for / had Of
course, been numerically leased
about that unfortunate dedication,
and had carefully explained to all
my friends that the author only
knew me from my book. / felt that /
could not stay and meet him
there with all those people
watching, and turned to tell my
cousin | felt ill and must return
home, but she had been claimed fora
duet, and was already standing by
the piano at the opposite side of the
room, SO | skunk away to the con-
servatory, where behind tall camel
las and ferns / trusted to be unob-
served until | could speak to my
cousin, and persuade her to return
with me. | do not know how long
| sat there, lost in a dream, when a
voice | knew well said quite close to
me:
"Have you seen your brother and
friend here yet, Mr.. Brownrigg? 1
know she(with a malicious accent on
the she) is here tonight, because l
have just spoken to her cousin, Mrs.
Wrayburn."
A grave voice answered slowly:
81 do not quite understand you.
Miss Could"
"No!" she laughed. "No, I dare
say not! 1t was a charming little
mystery, no doubt, but really
it is losing the charm of novelty
now, and of course not many of us
believe in these quixotic impersonal
feelings. All! there she is; let me
introduce you, pray. Miss Earle
Oakhurst, Mr.. Cyril Brownrigg.
Now l must leave you and sing my
little song. Au revoir."
And Miss Gould foated away, and
[ became confusedly aware of a pair
of very grave blue eyes fixed in
quiringly and somewhat coldly on
my face.
81 beg your pardon. hesaid; "but
your brother-I conclude he is your
brothers. a great and dear friend
of mine. Is he hear tonight"
81 have no brother" | murmured,
and continued hurriedly: 81 am
Earle Oakhurst-at least my real
name is Amy Earle Smith. I wrote
Moses and Midget and," 1 added
desperately, seeing how pale and
hard his face was growing as the
first look of surprise changed to one
of cold displeasure. 81 am sorry.
Forgive me; l only did it at first for
a joke, and afterward l feared"
"You feared?" he inquired, quietly,
as l paused.
eyes," [ said, feeling my cheeks
burn and my eyes fill with tears. 81
never had a friend like you before,
and | feared to lose your friendship"
"Yes-no-I don't know. Ibid not
think much about it until 1 saw the
dedication, and then l felt too
ashamed and unhappy to confess.
What can l do? l am so unhappy"
"You can do nothing. Will you
allow me to take you back to your
cousin, who, l believe, has been in
quiring for your" he asked, with a
sudden change to icy conventional
tones.
Irose without a word, but as we
entered the room 1 whispered:
"Can you forgive me?"
"No, l cannot" he answered, and
with a bow left me, and l saw him,
after a few words with our hostess,
leave the room, and was told after
ward he had PLEADED urgent business
as an excuse Tor leaving early.
After that miserable evening,
though I frequently saw yril Brown
rigg at musical orliterary gatherings,
he spoke a word to me beyond
what mere politeness rendered neces-
sary, and yet 1 always felt a strange
new joy in his presence. 1t was a
pleasure to me to hear how popular
he was becoming, and to watch his
grave eyes light up and his whole face
CLEAN when he talked about any.
thing that interested him. The sub
iects we used to discuss in our letters, |
the aim of art, the supreme necessity
of leading a noble life in order to win
power to do the noble work-how
we'll l knew his thoughts and feelings
about all these things; and after an
evening like this l would go home
filled with a kind of %rapturous pain,
and read over again those precious
letters whose noble words l already
knew almost by heart, until 1 could
hardly bear the bitter thought of
what might have been. Even if he
forgave, | knew he could never care
for me with the only love l would ac-
cept even from him-the love which
is a mingling of personal worship
with impersonal admiration, and
which alone is worthy of the divine
name.
One night a large party of us were
dining together, Miss Gould, Cyril
Brownrigg. my cousin and myself
being among the number. After din
ner we were all going to the theater
to hear a celebrated French actress
in one ofthe most powerfulimperson-
ations. By chance Cyril Brownrigg
was my neighbor at the meal, but,
as usual, beyond the necessary polite
formalities, did not speak, nor did l,
of course, though l a longing to
break down this icy wall that separ-
ated me from the man I had grown