Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1890-01-11


the latter type. and she will remain in the !
nome sanctifed by an ideal wedlock."
Il believe You are right. Mr.. Reardon," said |
Ambrose Arden in his calm, slow tones. look
ing up from volume he had taken, as if me-
chanlcally. from the table near his elbow; Il
beheve Mrs. Hatrclfs gentle and adhesive
nature will find comfort in familiar things
after time. should be very sorry if it were
otherwise. should be very sorry to lose so
Kind a neighbor and. above all. to lose my dear
little friend and pupil. Daisy"
Poor little Daisy sighed the priest; what |
a blessed thing that she is too young to know
the extent OF her loss or the manner of her |
fathers death"
That she must never know said Arden |
firmly
Mr.. Reardon looked doubtful.
do you think this terrible story can be hid |
den from her always" he asked. Il fear not. |
nLe may be kept i'll ignorance of the truth |
while she is 4 child under her mothers eve, |
put when she advances TO grlhood and mixes !
with other girls-whCn she goes to school"
she Will not so 70 school," interrupted |
Arden, ANY one would be mad 10 expose her
TO the tlttle-tattle and folly OF pack OF school
Vicar"
We'll, we viii say there shall be no school in
|, her case Though for an only child that means
a lonely. self-contdlncd, and not over-healthy
| g'rIhooG. But the time will come when she
! must mix with other people and so about III the
world. at home and abroad. DO you think no
| oficious acquaintance will ever be ndlscreet
! enough to tax to her, in pure sympathy. about
her fathers ueath-taklng II for granted that
| she knows all that can be known about it?''
| That IS long way TO look ahead" said
Arden. Il hope she will grow up light
| hearted. happy girl, hcc mind well fur
| nshcd. her memory SO full of interesting
things that should the evil you apprehend ever
/ come to pass she may be strong enough TO bear
| the shock. In the meantime L trust that all
! her friends in this place. from the highest 10
| the lowest. will do their best to keep her i'll
| ignorance of everythiDg-eXcept the one fact
| that she has lost u good and affectionate
| father"
| While this conversation was going on in the
| drawing room Mrs. Talbot was strolllng about
| the garden to get rid OF time. in accordance
| with Mr.. Reardon's suggestion that II would be
well TO leave the mourner to herself for an
| honr or SO. The lawn and river. the flowers
| ana SHRUBS were in the perfection of their
summer beauty, clumps of roses. hedges of
| roses. standard roses. dwarf roses. blush roses,
! climbing roses. made the glory of the long,
| narrow lawn. anu between the lawn and the
river there was an Italian terrace with yews
| and jumpers planted at regular intervals. and
great green tubs containing orange trees in the
/ intermediate spaces There flight of
| stone steps leading to the river AT each end of
! the terrace, and at the western end. with its
| back TO the setting sun, there summer
| house of classic form, in Portland stone, a
| summer house which in Italy would have been
! marble. At the eastern end of the terrace.
and on lower level, there was a capaciou5
| boat house. containing couple of outriggers,
punt and a wEerry, and the level roof of this
boat house had been fayorite lounging place
of Robert Hatrell and his friends-a place on
which TO smoke and talk in the summer twi-
| light as the pleasure boats went by to Henley
Mrs. Talbot had seen her husband and the
| dead man sitting there i'll close confidential
talk on a summer evening after dinner, while
/ she and her sister strolled sp and down the
terrace or stopped to feed the white stately
| swans and their soft gray cygnets. She almost
! fancled she could hear the mellow sound of
| Robert Hatrelfs laughter as she walked there
now. with her back to the boat house. What a
| joyous, frank, expansive nature. What happy
! life. wanting nothing that this world can give
OF comfort and delight; strength. intellect. good
| looks, fortune, perfect health and a wife who
| adored him. And he had been stabbed to
death in shabby London lodging by an I'M
known hand 1t was only fortnight ago
that Sarah Talbot and her husband had been
dining at River Lawn. They had gone down
to dine and sleep III the very flush of midsum-
| mer, just to smell the roses just for few
hours respite from London gaitics and London
smoke, as Clara had expressed it IN her letter
| of invitation. There had been only the Vicar
and Mr. Arden to meet them the two men now
| i'll the drawing room with the lawyer. They
had been a most sociable party. full of talk.
| Hatrell eXpatating upon his plans for the ar
! ranSement of the land which was so soon to be
his. and even in higher spirits than usual.
| There had not been a cloudin the horizon: and
| Mrs. Talbot, who loved Harley street and all
her London pleasures, had for once in her life
| gone back to town reluctantly.
| 1T is curious that Robert and Clara can live
| like hermits in the height of the season." she
told her husband. But really this morning,
when We were leaving, l almost envied them
their quiet domestic life in that lovely place"
And now the bond of married life was broken.
| and joy gone like dream when one
| awaketh.
Mrs. Talbot was pacing slowly along the ter
race depressed by these thoughts, when a long
shrlll shrek rang out upon the summer air;
| such a cry of agony as her ears had never
heard until that hour. The sound came from
| the open window of her sisters bed room, the
large bow window. which one of Robert
Hatrells numerous Improvements. She rushed
| into the house and ran upstirs. but quick as
she was Ambrose Arden and the Vicar were
there before her, and the former was in the act
OF breaking open the door as she reached the
landing.
He had implored Mrs. Hatrcll to open the
door, and there had been no answer, so he put
his shoulders against the panneling and
wrenched the door off its hinges.
| Clara Hatrell was sitting on the floor in the
middle of the room with heap of her hus-
bands letters-her lovers letters for they had
| all been written before marrIage-scattered
| about her. She sat with her hands clasped
upon her knees, her eyes fixed. and staring
into vacancy. Her disheveled hair fell about
her shoulders in wild confusion, as If her
Emily Talbot knelt down by her and spoke to
| her. trying to soothe her, gathering up the long
hair with gentle hands, pressing tenderest
kisses upon her burning forhead, but she took
no notice, her eyes remained fixed in that
| CHASTITY sightless gaze, her fingers were still
| locked together i'll the same convuSive grasp.
''She is mad" cried Mrs. Talbot, Mortified at
| that awful look. which made her sisters face
like the face OF stranger; mad quite mad"
For more than six weeks after the funeral
Clara Hatrell lived in the darkness of dis
| traught brain. More than once during that
| period she lowered on the brink of the grave
! and there were dismal hours III which her
doctor and her nurse lost all hope. Life and
reason were alike in peril, and there was many
| a night when Ambrose Arden sat in his study
trying to read, but never able to leave off
listening for the football that might bring him
fatal tidings. During this season of fear he
rarely went to his bed room till the sun had
risen above the long level meadows toward
| Henley bridge, and often the sunrise found him
! walking in the lane between his cottage and
River Lawn. 1t was the dreariest time of his
life since the short, sharp agony of his young
| wife's illness and death. He had nothing to
distract his mind from the one anxious subject
which absorbed him. His little pupil had been
carried Off by her aunt, and was at Westgate-on-
Sea with bevy of cousins, all older
| than herself His sons vacation was
| being spent with the good, old grand