Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1890-04-05

fulness, to my hideous propensity for doing or
saying the worst things on every possible occa-
sion. Today self-scorn was sharp as an acute
bodily pain, as raging toothache. for in
stance. or a guawing rheumatism. why had I
| SO betrayed myself. why had gone out of INV
way to let him see that I love him. and that nv
| hdenty to Cyril is only maintained BY a strug-
gle! That while was dismissing him and HE
| love as hopeless case. was ready to throw
myself into his arms and say, "Let us 90 to
| Scotland together. let US be married by the
blacksmith at Gretna Green; if there is any
such person as the blacksmith, or any such
place as Gretna Green left for true lovers in
this unromantic age"
felt that he would never more have a good
| or proper opinion of me. felt that il he had
had sister turn out like me he would have
considered her disgrace to the family. Twas
more completely miserable than had ever
been since those weary days at westgate-on-
| Sea, when the misery of nv fathers death was
| new thing and when was parted from nv
mother. A kind of helpessness and a dull
aching sense OF degradation had taken hold of
me and the worst Of all was that for the first
time in my life dared not confide in nv
mother. We sat opposite each other at the
lunc heon table. neither Of US caring to eat:
she low-splrited about my stepfather, who was
buried IN his book room over at the cottage,
/ dumb and despairing.
when the silence was at last broken il was
| that dear mother of mine who broke it in lust
| the way. which OF all others Jared upon my
| irritated nerves.
Daisy" she said, sit is absolutely necessary
to arrive at some definite idea about your mar
rage. Cyril has been pleading with me very
earnestly. poor fellow. lie is tired of his soli-
fary existence in chambers. tired Of bachelor
amusements. He is really very fond of you
and he wants to begin his domestic life."
Aud then she went on in her sweet tender
way, which brought the tears into my eyes, to
remind me that. though very young am no
younger than sho was when she cast in her lot
with my father. and to tell me again. as she
hasso often told me. how completely happv her
welded lie was. The more she said about that
| perfect union the more miserable felt until
| at last the tears rolled down my cheeks and nv
! handkerchief became mere wet rag and L
felt that II was like any bride at all it was the
mourning bride In somebody's play of whom
all know is that her existence gave occasion
for much-quoted line about music and an
oyer-praised descriptive passage about tenn
pie
DO you think you could make up your mind
to be married in the autumn, Daisy?" mother
asked, at last.
| l believe she took my tears to be only the
expression of general soft-heartedness-
there are some girls whose eyes brim over at a
! tender word-and not as indicative of sorrow,
| for she asked the question quite cheertu!Iy
Which autumn:" inquired /.
! This coming autumn. naturally"
why. mother. that would be directly"
mo- dearest We are only i'll July Suppose
we were to fix upon October for the wedding.
! That would give us three months for vorr
| trousseau. All other things are ready Your
! charming rooms IN Grosvenor Square and ut
| least half this house. Your stepfather and I
| Will be over-housed even then especially as
Ambrose does not love this place, and would
IKE TO Gravel during some part OF every year. "
Yes, there Is room enough for Us all" said
',and as tor the trousseau 1 don't care a straw
about 1t. You have dressed me so well all my
life that never hunger for new clothes. 1t IL
! only the badly dressed girls who are eager for
| wedding finery"
! Leave the trousseau to me, then. DAISY "
said mother. and will take care that it is
worthy OF the dearest girl in the world. NAV
tell Cyrll that he shall begin his new life be-
fore the end Of October. may l not?'
Tell him just what you like mother" I an
swered. with heart as heavy as lead. You
| must be the best Judge of what is right
left her few minutes afterward to go back
! to the garden. / felt a restlessness which made
1t impossible for me to stay in the house, a
perpetual fever and worry which seemed part
OF the heavy burden that weighed on nv
spirits And, oh. had been SO happy, SO
happy in that very garden only a year ago.
l want TO do what is right. If made a
mistake about my own feelings at Torcello it
| IS not right that another should suffer Tor nv
| thouShtlessness and folly. | gave nv promise
| tar too lightly. 1t never occurred to me how
| solemn thing it is to pledge ones love for a
| lifetime. was rather pleased to be engaged,
to have Cyril for my own property, and when
ever doubtlngs or questionings arose in nv
| mind l told myself that as time went on and
| we grew older should grow more and more
! attached 10 him. being really very fond of him
| in slsterly kind of way to begin with Only
] when We were leaving Paris did discover
how dreadfully had misread my own heart
| for then only did know what loye-such love as
| mother felt for her sweetheart means
| 1t was just in one moment, IN that parting
| at the station, that the dreadful truth
| flashed upon me. Oh. the heartache OF parting,
| the look IN his eyes which seemed to plead for
pity, to urge me to be brave and cast off the
pretence of love and own boldly to the reality
! He was not openly dishonorable: he waited for
| me to break my bonds. He could not know
how strongly l was bound in gratitude and
family love, as well as in honor. to Cyril. No.
| body except mother and can ever know how
much owe to Uncle Ambrose No. there is
no possibility otrrevoking my promise, and
| Cyril is all that is good and true. and daresay
my life will be very happy with him. 1 have
! but 10 forget those two short weeks in Paris.
and this morning IN the arbor. and his face
| when he left me. Not much surely to forget.
seeing how much women do forget nowadays;
| seeing how quickly mothers forget their lost
children. ana sons and daughters their par
| entS. and the most sorrowful widows the hus-
| bands they once adored. Forgetfulness must
| be easier than it seems to one. while memory
is still fresh.
went back to the house. too restless to STAY
long anywhere, and on my way TO the hail
door was startled by most hateful appari-
ton in the person of that odious FrcncEman
who attacked me III Church street. and who
! seemed to have interwoyen himself with our
/ lives by his persistent appeals to lny step
| fathers charity. | know how kind and soft
hearted Uncle Ambrose Is: and vet / should
have given him credit for more frames of
, mind than TO allow himself to be hunted down
/ by a ne endowed of this kind The man was
coming from the gate toward the hall door
when we met face to face. and he looked con-
siderablv abashed at encounterng me.
''Ah you MAJ well fee! ashamed of yourself. -
| said, Indignantly. Yes, am the lady YOU
had the audacity to waylay in the street when
you were tipsy."
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