The Democratic press. [volume] (Ravenna, O. [Ohio]) 1868-1901, 1892-03-16
SANTWOOD.

two years. 1hat VIII be none TOO
long in which to forget this wretched
affair and accustom myself to some of
the stern realities of life. I find that
fate has not decreed my path to be one
of roses"
The speaker was reclining carelessly
upon a luxurious sofa, amid such ele-
giant surroundings that one might nat
urally wonder what there could be in
his experience to tinge thoughts of the
future with so much gloom.
A fne-looking man of middle age,
seated near him, was the person with
whom he was ostensibly conversing,
though girl, sitting at the piano, a
little farther off, felt that the vein of
bitterness underlying the words was
meant especially for her.
Her hands were wandering half idly
over the keys, playing in softest, sweet
est fashion that rhythmical, half
mournful air, "Upon the Danube River" +"
Deep, rich bass chords dropped now
and then into the low-dripping silver
melody and the player hummed, as if
to her own thoughts, in low, sympa-
thetic tone, the refrain:
I'll ne'er forget that night in June
OpOn UnG DduuD0 river.
She, at least, did not wonder why
the speaker looked upon the dark
side of life just then, for she knew.
She knew what all the world did, that
the proud name of Santwood had been
dragged in the dust by a brothers
crime. Forgery and suicide had again
furnished the greedy press with SEN
sational columns and blazing head
lines, whose every letter cut into Phil
ip's sensitive heart like two-ed ged
sword.
But the girl at the piano knew that
a sharper pain than even that dictated
the hopeless words. She remembered
a scene in the library only few hours
before, where he had told her of his re-
solve to leave his native land, and, in
the weakness of the moment, he had
broken down and confessed the love
which he had meant, now that dis
grace had overtaken him, to keep Sc
cret to the end.
"For what right have I to offer my
stained name for any woman's accept
ance?" he bitterly asked.
But if it is true that murder will
out" so will love when it is thrilling
in every nerve, when every hope and
interest in life is identified with the
dear object.
"Yet am not sorry that you know
it. after ALL" he had said. "Little
worthy as I now am to offer my love
to one so pure and proud as you, it
would have been hard to bear this
hopeless love in silence. A week ago
could have told you this without a
thrill of shame. But then, not dream
ing of coming trouble, I was content
to wait until you had seen the world
and knew your own heart. What your
answer might have been then do not
know, but at least I should have felt
myself the peer of any one who might
sue for your hand, while now"
He broke off suddenly with a sharp
drawn breath, and paced the floor
with the air of some Gagged animal
chatting bitterly against the bars that
held him.
Suddenly he paused beside her as
she stood, white and silent, leaning
against the mantel for support, and
taking her hand in both his own, said,
with passionate pleading:
"But, after all, it is not my sin, Mar
guerite. You are proud, l know, but
will you turn from me for my broth
er's fault? If you love me ever so lit
tie, will you not tell me so, and let ii
comfort me in my long exile? 1 will
wait until this trouble has been for
gotten-until I can do something to
redeem"
"Do not ask me-" she interrupted,
shudderingly, and then she turned
and, looking straight into his dark
anguished eyes, in voice that sound.
ed cold and harsh in her efforts to re-
press all feeling, continued: "PhiliE
Santwood, you spoke truly just now
am proud-too proud, perhaps-bu
stainless name is everything to me
l am poor, but my name is withou
blemish, and, while 1 am very sorry
for you, II cannot"
Her voice died away in silence. TX
save her life she could not have finish
ed the sentence as she had intended tt
do, with those sternly compressed lip
and those dry, yearning eyes befor
her.
cat least tell me-could you hav,
loved me had it not been for-this?" h
pleaded, huskily.
"I cannot tell what might hav
been," she answered, turning wearil,
away. 81 only know what is. This i
q painful subject, Mr.. SantWood. LIE
it end, please"
She meant to be gentle in manne
and speech, but the great struggle
cost her to speak calmly seemed t
crystalline both into the hardness c
marble, and when she turned ava
Philip read only pride-nothing bu
pride and coldness-in her voice an
in the pale, set features. He say
nothing of the aching heart benin
that mask.
So, as she sat there with the low
sweet music dropping from the key:
not word or sigh of Philips escape
her; not word or sight or sound {
that unhappy evening but impresse
itself upon her memory, and month
afterward came back to her, mingle
always with the sad, sweet measure
of the song.
The next day he was gone. Nal
guerite was conscious of bitter lont
1iness and loss, when the fine, mani
figure had disappeared entirely frol
her view, when the fair, proud hea
and the handsome face had gone fo
ever from her home. She might hay
brought back the brightness to it wit
the one word hope, but she would NJ
speak it. She was too proud Of ht
old family name, on which no shad
of disgrace was ever cast.
As the months wore on Marguerit
realized to the full the bitterness of
hopeless love. They heard from Phil
at least her guardian did-and l
was accustomed to repeat the col
tents of those letters to her. 81
never asked to see them herself, thoug
her heart often ached for sight of tt
words his hand traced.
After time the letters began