Richmond dispatch. [volume] (Richmond, Va.) 1884-1903, 1891-07-12

vou loved me-lndsed I didn't / hoped
Won knew ali about IL, and"-her voice
sank TO Whisper was too weak to tell
Trent looked down at the sad, shamcd
face. and knew that he was beloved: a
moment before, ho had condemned hef;
now he pitied her. ,.
Heaven pity Us both, my darling" no
said, softly, placing his hand upon ner
bend AZ brother might have done. 1T
doesn't matter now whose fault It was
the wrctchedness will be for both.
As they stood together he was tempted
with q wild desire to strain her TO his
breast and cover her lips with kisses. He felt
that her great love for him would have
hardened IL. but he could not have par.
doned himself. A moment they stood
thus-her head upon his shoulder, his arm
about her neck-and Trent felt that his
better self was growing weaker. ne
turned away. God bless you God bless
you, my darling." he cried.
She turned back to him and held out her
hand. He grasped 1T passionately. and
then. imprlnting reyerent kiss upon II,
let it go. For a moment she stood look
ing at him, her lips quIvering "a II she
wished to speak but could not, and then
she turned away and went slowly. feebly
up the hillside.
Trent stood as il rooted to the ground
and watched the slender figure until the
dusk Of the distance hid 1t from him.
Then he broke down, and, forgetting
everything save his grief, he sobbed as q
man will sob when his heart Is broken.
CHAPTER w.
June IL here. The countryside IL clothed
in soft raiment of green; nature IL Idle
and the Incidence of summer Is upon the
land. The gray twilight steals along the
Valley of the james, narrowing the horizon
and giving 10 the hills near by q shadowy
indistinctness. The sparrows IN the caves
of the house of Trent are asleep ana the
locusts in the great oak are silent; Only
the rustling of the little beetles In the long
grass betokens life and nature Is singing
her monody unaccompanied and alone:
From the southern hills. where the tall
pines are soughing mournfully,. comes n
faint echo. and in the blackness far below
the great river is murmuring IN rude
rhythm to the lichened rocks. II is ma
lures triumph, and all the world sinks
INTO slumber. soothed by the sensuous
whisperings of the summer night.
The house at Trents Hull is dark with
the blackness of night. The gable Is a
Oldch SutflON ihb PCAr.So
less depths of darkness. All is silent. and
vet there is no quiet, for TO Jack Trent
sleep comes not. 8,
He stands by the window. his hand
clenching on the sill. looking out upon the
night with a set, rlgid face. He is think
ing still of the face he saw once. years ago,
in Richmond, and then again. SO lately, by
the river He asks himself, as he did two
months ago, why he cannot forget it; but
no smile accompanies the question now.
He cannot forget, and he asks himself If 1T
will be so forever.
This is not tie Jack Trent of other days.
The commonplace man has much stern
manhood in his composition, and stranger
might not read his face Alright: but tho
mother who has watched over him all
through his life sees in mis- eyes immeasura-
BILE. unfathomable sadness. Trent Is not
what he once was, nor is lite at Irents Hill
what it has been; but the man Is living his
life out calmly-come joy. come sorrow.
When Trent came homo IN the evening
Of that May day-never now to be forgot
ten-he was spared the pain OF telling ms
mother of his grief. As she had OWNED
his love, she OWNED his sorrow. Though
neither mother nor son spoke, each knew
tho Others heart. and the bond between
them grew stronger.
Had the little neighborhood known OF
.
that he bore his sorrows nobly, for he held
his head up and went his way calmly and
quietly; but the neighborhood neither
knew nor suspected the truth, and he was
spared their commiseratlon.
Time passes rapidly-eyen in Virginia,
where everything Is slow and old-fash-
ioned-and a month had gone by since
Trent had said farewell to happiness
month IN which the little family OF Trent's
~. IS
its own. They heard such news of Madge
and the Hancocks as they could not help
hearing, which was but little: They had
been told that Madge was i'll in health,
and that Bob Hancock was going to the
dogs faster than ever. but as this news was
brought to them by servants and sundry
maiden ladies-the newspapers of the
county-they gave it but little credence.
When Trent heard that Madge was not
well, he OWNED the cause, aud 1t grieved
him. Some men in his position would
have been comforted by the news, but
Trent. being of different mould from
such men. only wished that his broad
breast might have held the griefs OF both.
Bob Hancock's downward course grieved
him also, but IN n different way; he was
sorry that Madge's future husband was be-
coming less worthy of her.
Often did Trent puzzle over one thing
how Madge ever came to promise herself
to that man. 1t seemed to be inexplicable,
and he could form no hypothetical case
that seemed even plausible. He often
wished that he might have asked her the
reason, but he felt that he had no right to
do this, nor indeed opportunity, for the
few hundred yards which separated the
Hancocks' farm from Trent's Hill might as
well have been the width of continent.
Trent was TO learn the truth soon. how
ever. and that from the lips of Madge
herself
In these DAYS of hopelessness and doubt,
Trent returned to the shade of the western
porch, to the meerchaum and the piano,
and dreamed again. His air-castles now
were not beautiful villas on sun-crowned
hills. fragrant with the odors of the tropics
and thronged with merry troubadours; in
their stead he reared gloomy keeps, topped
with frowning battlements and grotesque
turrets: he peopled them with spectre
knights and ladies of the mist, and gave
them for surrounding landscape valleys
of blackness and rivers of corruption.
When he sat at the piano even his fingers
seemed TO be in touch with the prevailing
tenor of his thoughts. His music was sad
and was dominated by an undercur-
that poet OF Grief-he often turned. but
his favorite studies now were Faust"
and LA Favorita" In the latter opera
he found many airs that brought him JOY.
because they reminded him so nearly of his
grief. But there was a simple ballad
which came nearer to his heart than the
harmonies of Won Weber or the melodies
of Gounod and DonizettI-a ballad which
he loved, because it expressed his thoughts
so well. Often did his fingers stray over
the keyboard in aimless improvisation,
% fall ,,noAnaeiano1x into tha nraluda
to Then you'll remember me-" There
was something in the simple words which
pleased him-to be remembered! yes. that
was oil he might hope tor now. He had
loved her once, he loved her still, he would
love her fcrever-but 1t was oil over be
tween them now. and he might only hope
that, as he would not forget. he would not
be forgotten. Thus did Jack Trent bear.
as best he might. his one great sorrow.
1t happened one afternoon near to the
last days of June, when the grass was glis-
tening with the dewv dripplings OF sum-