The Bennington banner. [volume] (Bennington, Vt.) 1858-1894, 1893-09-15

COIUt.
Tom took the protfered hand in its
faultless gloI and gave it a rough grip.
"Your guest" he was thinking. "You
old scamp! You don't know that nearly
every penny of your beggarly annuity
goes to buy your clothes and whisky
that Virginia does copying and painting
when you are asleep, and wears one
gown month in and month out that the
bills may be paid; that my weekly pay
ment for bed and board will be more
than acceptable. You don't know it.
and-no matter what Virginia says
think you wouldn't care hang if you
did. If you had your deserts, you'd have
been pitched in the river long ago."
Somehow his own failure made him
unusually bitter to Mr.. Kent's short.
comings. The worlds hard knocks may
eventually teach resignation, but who
can say that while the bruise is aching
the brute within us does not snarl?
AS the old man kissed Virginia on the
forehead, a pathetic paternity savoring OF
the theatrical in the caress, he did moi
dream how intensely Tom longed to cal
him a few hard names in sound Anglo
Saxon.
He stumbled little and sank into the
most comfortable chair, his murky eye!
half closing.
"Tea! All, what is more grateful to
tired body than a cup of tea2" This was
a staple remark, always delivered with
gusto by Mr.. Kent after q lengthy com.
munion with mixed drinks. THE fra
GRANGE of it! The sorcery of home is OK
hailed from a cup of tea. Butt hope
my dear, you have something else. A
chop or bit of salad
Virginia watched him as he looked
across the tips of his delicate fingers il
fuddled meditation and felt her face
burn. Her joyous anticipations of the
first night spent together had been de
plorably amiss. Tom was discouraged
and silent, half angry with her and en-
ragged at the world. Her father had re
turned after one of his "bad days." wheI
the remembrance of all he had misuse6
and lost stung him to drink and perhaps
to find the ghost Of his old pleasuresin the
hazy enchantment offered by strong liq
uor.
All, there was hope for Tom. He
would forget this disappointment. He
would join the race again. He had still
a lance to throw. But poor old dad
Perhaps she did not half guess what
thoughts tortured him. She knew his
annuity trickled through his fingers now
in small personal extravagances just az
the thousands had gone when she was
little child, but she could not blame him
To dress presumably and drop in upoI
old friends for chat and a glass of port
sometimes to dine with them in the club
where once he had shone with unequaled
brilliancy or to pay for an orchestre
chair when an old comedy was present
ed were the surviving joys of his deca
dence His friends did not know il
what corner of the town he had bidder
himself, did not remember he had &
daughter. Frequently he forgot that fac
himself. And meanwhile Virginia work
ed and saved, stealing only odd moments
for her reading and music, practicine
depressing economies that robbed heI
cheeks Of color and sometimes gave tx
her deep eyes an expression of fear.
But she loved the old man. Her pity
for what she termed his misfortunei
made her tender to his faults. Not 81
Tom, who had watched the pitiful little
tragedy for two years. This exhausted
spendthrift, this cold materialist with
dreamer's eyes, this autocrat with avoicl
of honey, suave, dainty, well hammered
he disliked as much as his native genial
ity permitted.
Tom threw himself on a lounge an,
shading his moody eyes from the lamp
light watched Virginia as she went light
ly from cupboard to table, noted thi
streak of wavering pink staining he
cheek, the eagerness with which she hur
ried to anticipate her fathers maudlh
requests.
"Ah, Virginia, how stoical You are
how steadfast. how tender and passion