Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1890-04-12

determination yet and am going to ask you 1
favor.
What is that?"
II want you to let your mother suppose thai
it is you who have broken the engagement
You can say that You did not know your own
mind when you accepted me. that You were toe
Precipltate-the sort OF thing girls say pretty
OFTEN. believe. l don't think. as society il
constituted nowadays. there will be very much
astcnlshment at the alteration OF our plans.
hope before year is over that my darling will
have found a worthier lover and as l shall be
lar away. no doubt people will soon forget me.
You Will be far away" echoed. '.Where?'
In Australia. shall try to begin a new life
on the other side of the world breed sheep or
the Darling Downs. or turn vino grower
Heaven knows what; but anyhow, my future
shali be as far remote from my past as distance
can make il"
A new light flashed upon me. and began to
think that the question of money was at the bot
| tom OF poor Cyril's trouble and that in honor
was bound to refuse this offered release.
However | might wish 10 cancel the past,
could not be so mean as to break my engage
ment because my lover had grown suddenly
poor.
Il begin to suspect yonr motive" said Sc
! rioulv. Uncle Ambrose has lost his fortune.
It's coming was like fairy tale and it has van
lshed like gold ID fairyland. Oh Cyril. surely
know that never cared about your father S
, wealth, or thought whether you were rich or
poor. Mother and l have plenty of money for
all of us
My dearest know your generous heart. No.
1t Is not a money trouble that has darkened my
days; but there is trouble; and it is one which
must keep locked up in my own breast till l
die"
1t is something about yourself" / specn-
lated. pltylng him too much to leave the mys-
! terry unqnesuoned; some mortal disease. per-
| haps. You have consulted physician who has
| told you that you may die suddenly, and YOU
fear TO make me unhappy"
! No. Daisy, medical men and have had few
| dealings since | was vaccinated Don't ask any
more questions. dear. l dare tell You no more
| than told you at first. All is over between US.
and my life must be spent thousands of miles
away. Icould not trust myself within reach of an
| express train that would bring me back to You "
He bent over me rs | sat motonless with
wonder. looking at the bright water and the
! nights and shadows on the wood. He pressed
his lips upon my forehead in farewell kiss.
Goodbye. my Margaret, mine no more" be
SAID, and then turned away and walked slowly
across the lawn by the way he had come.
! heard the gate in the fence open and shut
and knew that he had gone across the road to
/ his fathers cottage.
! l sat looking at the water in a mute. dull
| wonder. while quarter after quarter chimed
! from the old gray tower. and the shadows
| deepened. and the golden lights grew dim upon
| beach and oak. and the willows in the fore
! ground changed from green to gray. The foot
men carried away the tea table Ill their horriG
mechanical way, which makes one think that
| they would clear a table and arrange a room in
just the same leisurely fashion if one were
lying dead upon the carpet. The evening
| darkened, and still j sat there wondering and
muslng. | was free--free to love whom
! pleased, free to marry anyone who cared to
ask for my hand. had the liberty for which
my soul had longed ever since | left Paris
| And yet could not feel glad. | could not be
| glad while he was so sorry Poor Cyril, my
first playfellow, my boyish sweetheart, the
first adnirer who ever told me my face was
| worth looking at. How well | remembered
those first compliments. and how flushed and
! fattered felt when the young Oxonian told
/ me he liked the gown | Wore. or that my eyes
! looked dark under the shadow of MY sailor hat
How foolish and vain | must have been when
was fifteen and wore my first long gown.
| No, l could not be glad. felt such an i'm
! poster. Surely ought to have confessed the
| truth IN that last moment; / ought TO have told
him plainly and candidly that my heart had
| gone from him months ago, and that the fan
cled treasure which he was reuouncing was the
| poorest thing in the world-a iilt's unstable
affection. There might have been some conso-
| lation for him in knowing the worthlessuess of
the thing he surrendered.
And yet and yeti might have been cruel to
! undece;ve him 1t was better for him, per-
| haps. to believe that he had received measure
| for measure. that had loved him to the last
''lt ever | marry it will be years hence. dare
| say" told myself land he will be in Aus
| Hdlld, Ndpplly married nlnSel1 by that time.
| 1hls was a comforting thought, but even this
| could not prevent ME feeling very unhappy
| about Cyril and his most mysterious trouble
| What was it? Had he gambled? Had he kept
| race-horses? Had he forged? One hears and
! reads OF things quite as extraordinary as forg-
| ing on the part of a seemingly honor able
| young man. And the trouble was obviously a
| very serious one. 1t might be some casual
forging. executed on the spur of the moment
after wine at Christchurch, when the poor.
| dear fellow hardly knew what lie was doing
! Icould fancy the whole scene. Some wicked
| collegian-several years older than Cyril-put-
ting pen into his hand and making him sign
a bond or an lou or bill or something. with
| somebody elses name-the deans perhaps-to
| redeem his losses at cards He has often told
| me how wild they are at Christchurch and how
| they throw one another into the fountain and
| play poker and do all manner of dreadful
| things. The more / thought of Cyril's unhap-
| plness the more fel. inclined to believe that
| 1t must date from his college days. 1t was a
sword that had been hanging over his head for
a long time and the hair had broken today.
There was another idea which struck me
! sfterward as walked back to the house What
If Cyril, in weak good-natured way, had got
himself engaged to another girl. a girl he de-
| tested. and felt that honor obliged him to
! marry her because she was of inferior rank and
/ because he detested her.
! This would account for his resolution to 90
to the other side OF the world and begin a new
| life. He would marry this person and take her
| straight off TO the antipodes. where no one be-
! longing to his own world would ever see him in
his disgrace. Poor Cyril. My heart bled for
! him as | thought what his life would be like,
| married to vulgar woman who would misplace
| the asplrate and talk of him Mr.. Harden. II
would be all too dreadful. and | felt as if
would have rather sacrificed my own happiness
than that he should be SO utterly lost.
| Mother came out of the drawing room WIN
dow TO meet me as drew near the honse She
ha insy fro, har ,.,r
tasted half dozen cups of tea in half a dozen
| tiny kitchen parlors and had heard no end of
sad stories. Yet she looked happier than usual
| for she had been giving happiness to others.
had been keeping my heart locked against
that dear mother for months, but now | was
determined to be no longer secret and prevari.
eating. l put my arms around her neck and
laid my bewiIdered head upon her shoulder
Mother. dear, you have no need to trouble
! about that horrId rousseau" said half laugh.
ing and half crying; IA change has come over
the spirit of our dream-mne and Cvrirs. We
have agreed that we don't quite suit each
other-or at least that we answer better az
brother and sister than We ever could as hus
| band and wife--and so--in the frendiest way
| We have agreed to part. He is going to Aus
| tralia to look about him and am going to stay
| with you"
believe was slightly hysterical after this
and felt very much ashamed of myself as
heard myself making ridiculous noise with
ont the power TO stop.
Poor mother kissed and comforted me and
scolded me little till quieted down and then
she sat by my side on our favorite sofa to dis
cuSs the situation