Richmond dispatch. [volume] (Richmond, Va.) 1884-1903, 1890-07-13
Ill.

me to wind up his watch and to assist him
to undress.
a wonderful woman, Lady X. Bob"
he began. There are no women like that
now. wonderful woman Did you this
afternoon remark that observation OF hers
about great crimes, Bob!p
II did" | replied. But / cannot say
that understood it,"
" Profound, Bob Profound" said the
old man. Nine crimes out of ten, nephew,
spring from mems ignorance; and how
great are young peoples ignorance. That
Is what young people never know and
there's the rub, Bob. That Is what leads
them into their great crimes-wrongs
against fathers and mothers, those who
love them. and those whom they love best.
You are fve-and-twenty, Bob. Your great
CRIME has been committed, OF YOU VIII
never be guilty of one. Take an old mans
advice. look well around you and find out
if you have been guilty. And If you have,
redress it While you can - whle you
can" he repeated more slowly, before 1t
is too late"
Wes there something, wondered, on the
old mans conscienceY Had | heard at
Northbrook only part of the history Of
Jessy Gwynnel | began 10 suspect So.
The next instant the old gentleman re-
ferred 10 the very subject which was occu-
plying my thoughts.
"You remember our visit TO North
brook, Bob?" be said. MY crime Tho
spoke solemnly-" my crime was mg con-
duet toward Miss Gwynne. II was no
CRIME, YOU would say. 1t was nothing,
nothing such as man would reproach
! himself with, much less ANYTHING such as
| the world esteems wrong. but, d my ignO-
rance, in the ignorance of my youth did
q thing that had consequences so awful.
And never knew it. Never suspected IT;
not once IN seventy years. And that Is
! lust II, ROb--a man so seldom knows when
he has been wise and when he has been
| wicked"
He was silent awhile. and did not press
| him 10 explain himself. But presently he
resumed of his own accord:
| Mems greatest crimes, Bob, are not
those that they commit with the greatest
| deliberation, nor those alwaEs to which tho
world has attached the most shameful
names. but those acts. followed by the
cruellest results, which spring from the
weakness Of our characters. acts of which
we are guilty without suspicion that we
are doing wrong. end whose miserable
| consequences we only understand when
remedy has become long since impOssl-
| ble.n
Again my uncle was a little while silent
| before he continued:
THE evening that | came home, Bob,
after our stay in Berkshire-that evening
that you left me by the dinin g-room tire-I
had vision. You will think that | am
| very old, and | begin TO dote. Perhaps j
do. But what | tell you is true.
when you wero all gone that evening /
sat by the fire thinking of things that hap
pened many years ago and Of what Ann
| told us. and Of our visit to Northbrook
and then, presently looking up, j found
that some one had come to sit with me.
setrf L.
senses was vivid and distinct. ! saw him
clearly and could hear him move. and felt
the difference when he stood between me
and the fire. But | had clear intuition
| that his presence was unreal: that what |
saw was but q phantom creation of my
senses So completely was IN possession
OF my judgment that | said to myself |
must be III worse health than | supposed,
to be subject to illusions such as this
But Just as ono saws TO ones self in
dream, This must be "a dream and yet one
continues to dream on, so my illusion con-
tInued.
II felt no surprise. The presence that
was with me seemed 20 me natural-as
natural as If your father had come in or
YOU, only ] wondered who my visitor was.
He sat little before me- nearer the fire. 20
that | only saw the back of his head and a
part of his cheek. At one time | thought
II was your grandfather, for the figure wss
not unlike his and the clothes were such
as he used TO wear. At another time |
thought it was Dick, but the hair was
darker than his. But my visitor spoke.
"'Shall we go back. William2' he said,
back to 1914, and 90 down again to North
brook and see Jessy GwynneI'
His voice was familiar to me. very
! familiar. 1t was like Dicks voice. but II
was not Dicks Nor was 1T your grand
So of |
could remember.
However, while trying TO identify il I
had given some sort Of assent to his propo-
| sition.
1.-The scene around me faded-the fire
and the walls and the pictures-and sinful
| taneouslv a change passed within myself. 1t
was spring, and l was walking with my
companion in a country lane. My step was
| easy and elastic and / wore dark plum
| colored coat. 1t was new one that bad
recently had made at Oxford, and / was III
my twentieth year. Below Us on the slope
| OF hill lay a little country town, with It's
| church-tower peepirg above some trees. 1t
| was Northbrook. We reached a stile, and
my companion said This is no doubt the
stile.' So we crossed over the stlle and
took n path across the fields. Shall we
| ind Miss Gwynne at homep | asked. He
| did not know any more than !. Presently
we came to a spot where we could Just see
| O wicket-gate-you remember IL.
"'TheTe is some one coming SAID my
companion. A girl; Look
Why | answered. YES Moves IT
| leaped with great leap of Joy.
I'VE met her just where the path reached
| the trees and she and / shook hands, like
| lovers delighted TO meet unexpectedly.
| For few minutes we stood talking where
we had met. The sun shone on the grass,
and on the young green leaves. and the
rocks cawed around their nests in the tall
trees. and to me the whole world seemed
| to be flooded with happiness. But soon
| learned with disappointment that Miss
| Gwynne was going out 10 dine with q
| friend, and that heI engagement could not
| be postponed. l offered TO accompany her
| for part of the way 10 her friends
| house, and so turning back walked with
| her, | had brought her little present
| from Oxford, and when we again reached
the wicket gate gave 1t to her. At the gate
we stood awhile talking, and she put her
small foot upon the lowest bar OF the gate.
| | thought that she acce pied my present
coldly, and could not prevail upon her 10
let me accompany her any further than the
stlle at the end of the meadows. There
we SAID 'good-by,' she telling me to go on
! 10 Tho Cottage Her father and mother
would be glad 10 see me. and she would
return home probably before lett.
$50 we parted. for | was timid about in
sisting about gong any further with her
after She forbade IT. had IN reality come
to ask her to be my wife. and would God |
| had done so! But was unable TO under
stand her reserve, and displeased that she
| Should have refused my escort. So she went
on, and turned back with very heavy
| heart,
"so'erchsrgod with burden Of my own loves
might
10 retrace the steps / bad taken at her
side. My companion had rejolned me, but
we walked in silence. and l observed that
| he kept his face averted from my scrutiny;
| AT The Cottage we were received
| with kindness and hospitality. and Mrs;
Gwynne insisted upon our remaining untli
her daughter returned home. But the
afternoon wore away and we saw nothing
of theyoung lady-only just before our de-
parture she came in, as we were having
some refreshments, and then she sat apart
from US, talking with her father at the
other end Of the room of what she mad
heard at dinner, gossip about people 10 me
altogether unknown.
The tune came when il was necessary
| for us to leave IN order TO catch the coacn,