Iuka reporter. (Iuka, Miss.) 1888-1894, 1890-07-03

She clasped her fnds togeiner' anu Il
,ver the poor, pal face looked IKE an
angels it looked 81 hen,
He ,eas true fl did not fersake me!
Oh, thank Godl"f :, ,
And then she <membered all that FOL
lowed, and hQit had all ended IN her
being what he was now-John Bower
banks wife,X
The deaJman had told lie-or perhaps
not a dried lie, but rnisstatement-put-
ting forwdH what he believed and hoped
as what reilly existed. He had evidently
informed bhn Stenhouse that his daugh-
ter no lonAr considered herself engaged
to him. aN was on the point of marriage
with Joln Bowerbank. Such fabricatons
are oftkn given as facts by even good peo-
Pile. who hope them until they really believe |
them. The falsehoods OF the wicked can
be met--the misstatements of the respec-
table and worthy cannot.
@And lie that is half truth is ever the blacklist
of lies"
So Emily lover must have believed 1t,
as was scarcely unnatural. But-the father.
When one man has a grudge against
another, it may be q small thing to deny
him his house and suppress his letters; and
such may be, by some people, counted by
no means an unwarrantable proceeding on
the part of any father who wishes to pre-
vent his daughters making an imprudent
marriage. A little uncandid, perhaps;
little like treating her as child: but then.
many young women are little better than
children; and parents have, or are supposed
to have, all the wisdom, the justice, the
prudence on their side, and may take the
law into their own hands, and use any
means which they think advisable for the
ultimate good of their offspring. How can
they-the children just entering on life,
aid with little or no experience of its
countless pitfalls, know what is best fol
their own happiness? Blind obedience is
safest and best.
So would argue many excellent people
SO doubtless would have argued the dead
lawyer, could he have come back from his
new filled grave, or from the place, wher-
ever it was that his soul had fled to, and
stood before his daughter in the dead of
night. as she sat with that fatal letter
still clutched in her hands, staring at va
cancy.
She was usually good deal given to
weeping-too much SO, indeed-she was
such thorough woman in all her weak
nesses, poor little Emily. But now she did
not weep at all; neither did she rave, MOI
think any unholy, wicked thoughts, nor
curse her fathers memory. He was dead
and she must not allow herself to dwell up
on what he had done against her, or Judge
whether his act were right or wrong. She
only felt that it had killed her.
Yes, he had killed her, this respectable
and respected father-had killed his own
daughter, his natural flesh and blood, as
completely as if he had slain her with his
hand. 1t might be worth counting-as per-
haps the good God may send His angels to
count some time, when the secrets of all
lives shall be revealed-how many fathers,
perhaps some mothers; but women being
less selfish than men, these are rarer-
with the very best intentions, have done the
same.
He had killed her killed the spring OF
youth and life within her, not merely by
lawful, open opposition - though that
would have been cruel enough--but by
mean, underhand, cowardly blow, side
thrust which there was no parrying. By
him, worldly man as he was, probably the
thing was not realized in its full enormity.
How could he or such as he, understand
the loss of love-the one blessing which
makes life sacred and beautiful? Or per-
haps he thought, like other worldly people,
that worldly blessings are all in all, and
that he was actually doing his daughter a
kindness in keeping her in the sphere she
was born to; saving her from sacrificing
herself to man OF no wealth and no po-
sition, decidedly her inferior in the mar
riage barter, who, while she gave him ev-
erything, had nothing ON earth to offer her
except love, which was q commodity of no
weight at all with Mr.. Kendall.
Be that as it may, he had killed her. OF
course, there is this to be said, why had
she the weakness to let herself be killed.
Why did she take her lovers loss so pass
lively, and SO INTERESTINGLY allow herself to
be married to another? Why, in short, suffer
~ rself to be made a mere victim to cir
Gun. Aances when she should have risen
above 'ser', as strong, brave human be-
ing, whelio. woman or man, ought TO do;
fight her own hat,. and assert her right to
live out her own ~ in her own way,
whether she marrie1 ohn Stenhouse or
not?
Alas, the question is answered ~ hun
dreds OF victims men and WON, '. but
especially women-to whose weak alp
lessness might has become right, and COW
ardice appeared like dutiful submission.
Pass on, pale ghosts, sad shadows of lives
that might have been made so happy and
so fair; God will remember you, poor suf-
fering ones! But how as to those who
have caused you to suffer?
think, if there ought to be Gehenna
upon earth-for mortal justice must not
presume to create Gehennas afterward-
should be opened for the punishment OF
tyrants-domestic tyrants.
Emily Bowerbank sat till daydawn with.
out attempting SO much as to stir. Devil.
dering, delirious thoughts swept through
her poor brain-she who was not much
given to think, but only to feel. Whether
she fully realized her own position
she was and all she had lost; whether, in
those long still hours, she went over and
over again, in maddened fancy, the con-
trast between her calm, cold, respectable
marriage with honest John Bowerbank-
thank heaven, she felt he was not to blame.
he never could have known ANYTHING
marriage with every pulse of her heart
happy and at rest; every aspiration of her
soul satisfied her nature developed, and
her mind strengthened; fitted for veal or
woe, labor or ease, peace or perplexity, az
she would have been had she become the
wife of John Stenhouse all this was
never revealed.
She said nothing and did nothing; what
was there to do or say? She blamed no
one, not even herself; it was too late now.
Everything was too late. She felt in
vague. childish sort of way, like one Of
the foolish virgins, whom she had always
hn<nxs 4.<~