Phillipsburg herald. [volume] (Phillipsburg, Kan.) 1882-1905, 1894-09-20

NHlftA Avn
,qRrEr FILLS THE ROOM Ur OF MY ABSENT
CHILD.n
Sir Cyp,ian had told himself that in
coming to Marchbrook, nothing was
further from his thoughts than the
desire to see Constance Sinclair; yet
now that he was so near her, now thai
he was assured Of her unhappiness, the
vearning for one b,ief meeting, one
look into the sweet eyes, one pressure
of the gentle hand that used to lie Sc
Erustingly in his own, grew upon him
hourly, until he TO that he could not
leave Marchbrook without seeing her.
No motive no thought that could have
Swallowed the purity of Giltert Sim
clairs wife, had his souls desire been
published to the world, blended with
this yearning Of Sir Cyprian's Deep
est pity and compassion moved him,
Such sorrow, such loneliness as Con-
stance Sinclair's was unutterably sa-
cred to the man who had loved and sur
rendered Constance Clanyarde
Sir Cyprian fingered at Marchbrook,
and spent the greater part Of his days
in riding or walking over familiar
grounds. He was too much out OF
spirits to Join Lord Clanyarde in the
slau ghter of innocent birds, and was
not little bore by that frivolous old
gentleman S society in tie winter even
ings by the fire in the ,mfOrtable
Observation-Disclosures, the only really
snug apartment in that great bare
hou,e Every night Sr Cyprian made
up his mind to deTa t next morning,
yet when morning came he still lin
gere1.
One bright, bleak day, when there
w1re flying snowstorms and intervals
of sun and lie sky, Sir Cyprian-hav-
ing actually packed his portmanteau
and made arrangements for being
driven to the station to catch an after
noon train-took u final ramble in
Marchbrook park. He had not once
put his foot on the soil that had been
mis-, but he could get peep at the old
place across the ratings. There was a
melancholy pleasure in looking at
those wintry glades. the young fir
trees, the scudding rabbits, the
screaming phea:ants, the withered
bracken
The sun had been shining f1w min
utes ago. Down came the snow in a
thick driving shower, almost binding
Sir Cyprian as he walked swiftly along
the oak fence. Presently he fourd
him e f at the end of the Monks ave-
nue. and undet the classic temple
which was said t. be built upon the
very spot where the Benedictines once
had their chapel.
Ten years ago that temple had been
Cyprian Davenant'5 summer retreat.
He had made 1t his oking-room and
study ha1 read Thucydides and the
Greek dramatists there in the long va
cation; had read those books of mol
ern travel which had fired his mind
with a longing for the adventures, per-
ils and triumphs of the African ex-
plore'. Twenty years ago it had been
his mothers chosen resort He had
spent many summe" morning, many
pensive twilight there by his mot er's
side, watching her sketch or heal ing
her play. The old-fashioned square
piano was there STILL perhaps, and the
old engravings on the walls.
Poor old place he thought; al
wonder if any one ever goes there
now, or if it is quite given up to bats
and owls, and the spirits of the deud?"
Ee stopped undo the stone balcony
which Overh ng Marchbrook, on Il
level with the eight-foot wall. In
Gilbert Sinclair or his architects
plan OF improvements this sic sum
mer house, relic of departed taste,
had been forgotten, Sir Cyprian was
glad to find it unchanged, unchanged
In any wise, save that it had a more
forloLn and neglected air than of old.
The stone.w rk oil the balcony was
green and gray with moses and
lichens. The framework of the win
dow had not been PAINTED for quarter
of a century The ivy had wandered
as it listed over brick work and stone,
darting sharp.forked tongues of green
into the crevices of the decaying NOR
tar. Sir Cypran looked upat the we'll
remembered window, full of thoughts
of the pat.
"DOes she ever come here Iwonder?"
he said to him self; "or do they use the
old place for Toulouse or an apple
shel?"
Hardly, for there fell upon his ears
u few bars of plaintive symphony,
payed on a piano of ancient tone the
peRsive Broadwood dear to his child
hood-and then voice, the pure and
sweet cOntralto he knew too we'll, be-
gan Lord Houghton's pathetic ballad,
strangers Yet.
He listens as if he lives but to hear.
Oh, what pathos, what profound mel
ancholy in that voice, pouring out its
sweetness to the silent wall Regret,
remOrse, sorrow, too great for common
Language to express, are breathed in
that flood of melody. And when the
song is done the singers hands fall on
the keys in crashing chord, and q
wild cry-th sudden utteralce of un
comfortable despair goes up tC
heaven.
She is there so near him-alone il
her anguish. She, the only woman he
has ever truly loved, the woman fol
whom he would give his life a freely a
he would spill cup of water upon the
ground, and with little thought o
the sacrifice.
The lower edge OF the balcony il
within reach of his hand, The cen
Eury-old ivy would afford easy footing
for less skilled athlete, To climb tn
ascent is as simple as to mount the rig
Ring of his ySaht