The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1894-01-14
room in which she was accustomed to write


little nieces q wealth of tenderness ana
solicitude that rendered her spinsterhood
an even more pathetic sight to witness
than ii had been before. She was mother
TO them in the highest, the nOblest mean
ing OF the word. And as the children grew
strong and gay. so more and more OF HeI-
ems youth seemed TO vanish from ner
1t was as IL the lives she watched absorbed
it; as If, like parasites, they four1shed on
the stem they Slapped When they had peen
with her for two years there was an aGdi-
tiOnal sedateness in her manner; when they
had been with her for five, she no longer
looked a young woman. Indeed, she no
longer regarded herself as a young woman;
she spoke of things unbefitting to my
age" Yet she was more beautiful than
than ever l was secretly convinced, her
own heart belonged to the man who had
not guessed the tenderness he had inspired.
He latterly. gathered, making some
progress in his profession; and L gathered
it from the fact that during the last twelve
months Helen had several times spoken to
me proudly of remittances that he had sent.
Previously she had omitted all mention of
his promised assistance, and it had not
stand that the promise was not being tul-
filled. Her silence on the point and the re-
doubled assiduity with which she worked
were explicit enough.
Upon the few occasions upon which he had
run down To the village / had seen but little
of him, though he appeared to see me. His
well-cut clothes. his admirable boots and his
hat. his silver-headed walking-cane itself.
Jared upon ne, contrasting them with the
rigid economy of the woman who Supported
his children. I knew, however, that he
wrote to her frequently, and did not fail to
express his gratitude and appreciation to
her in well balanced periods, which she
thought as beautiful as they were unde-
served. Now that he was actually sending
a little money towards the expenses she held
him a veritable hero, rising, PhoenfX-like,
above the msfortuneS of a malignant fate.
Yes, Ii is quite the truth that to his sister,
in-law Arnold Seymour was a hero. She re-
read his letters; she prayed for his success;
his little girls believed him the most noble
man who had ever lived. She talked to them
of their father in a voice which. to me who
listened, was a confession of her love. When
he was coming TO see them her eyes would
sparkle, her cheeks would flush almost she
was again young. More than once / had
been tempted TO plead my cause with her
in this way give me my answer before 1
spoke. What she ticipated-whether she
anticipated anything could not judge, but
that she still loved Arnold Seymour with all
her soul had no manner of doubt.
One afternoon when / went to see her she
told me she had heard from him by the
mornings post. She was quite gay. The
children We're rcmping in the garden where,
seven years before, / had asked her to be
my wife, and she and l sat chatting by the
window
HE is coming down." she said, with a de-
lighted tremor in her tones; 'he will be here
by tea-time You must stay and meet
1 made some objection, but she overruled
away. He even refers TO you in his letter.
Take down a book from the shelves. ard
amuse yourself while 1 make the chicks
nice and smart for papa. "
She called them in and retired with them
upstairs, whence 1 could hear laughs and
splashings. The servant came in with the
tea-things, and laid the table with the best
service and little glass bowls full of flowers,
in whose arrangement l detected the haRdi-
work of Helen. The. brilliancy of the day
was subsding. and the room and the fruit
trees beyond were mellowed in the radiance
of the declining sun. The breath of the hay
blew in with the light breeze. 1t was very
up the path. Nothing was incongruouS but
Arnold Seymour.
chanted to find me there, though. when I
looked at Helen's eyes as she greeted him,
could easily have wished myself away.
duced for their delectaton some trifiing
presents from his bag.
"As a matter of fact, old fellow" he said
to me, Il was coming round to your quar-
tiers to see you presently. | want you TO
put me up for the night, if you will; we
can have a talk together: you and l."
away for a while, will you? We can get
on better without them"
took this as a hint to make my depar
ture, but he detained me-
AFTER all, you may just as we'll hear
what l have to say now" he observed.
Helen won't mind, 1 am sure
resumed my seat, and he lit cigarette
before continuing.
Helen" he said land you. my dear
fellow, you are the two best friends I have
In the world. One of you is the sister of
my poor wife. and the other introduced me
10 her. When / lost her life seemed finished
10 me; and l have no hesitation in declar-
ing that everything L have to-day is due
to the tenderness of the woman who has
been a cGmrade to myself and mother
to my babies"
He ficked the ash off the cigarette. and
paused moment | took advantage Of the
pause 10 lift my eyes from the floor and
glance at Helen, whose color was hutter-
ing in her cheeks.
But for Helen, here" he pursued,
Helen, whom the world calls my sister
in-law, but whom l, as l have said, call
my comrade, / should now have been an
adYenturer in the Colonies. She took nv
children, she permitted me to continue my
profession. she has been loyal and tender
and devoted. L owe her 50 much that | am
glad. and indeed proud, to acknowledge 1t
before another-to have another present to
see how | have come to her to-day"
Arnold, she said, and something I had
never seen there before was i'm her face
Il am succeeding" said Arnold "by slow
degrees | am making a respectable prac-
want to discuss with you. Helen | am
anxious TO marry again; but you have been
eveerything to me. and l cannot do it with
OUT you sanction and approval. 1t will adj
vance me very much in my profession,
the marriage | project; it will bring me
many briefs and, later on, in all probable
lty, a very fine appointment. But if you
think | should be wronging your sisters
memory, II you think | should be behaving
badly to the children in giving them a step
mother. will waive my interests and my
affection for the lady, and obey your wish
There is nothing to cry for-I will obey
your wish
had not known she was crying, for 1
could not look
Answer me- he said what is your
view?'
The tears came at the thought Of parting
with the children" muI5lured Helen; land
they were foolish, selfish tears"
II can bring them UD very differently, if
marry" urged Arnold" She has large
fortune; they will have every advantage
that wealth give"
| got up and looked out of the window
The sunset had faded, and the shadows
were falling upon the trees and flowers.
For a second neither the man nor the
woman behind me spoke Only the wind
which had risen, moaned a little among
the boughs
Il pray that you may be very, very hap
pyi' the voice / loved said steadily.
And, turning, | asked Seymour TO give me
one of his cigarettes, in order that Helen
might snatch a moment to look out of the
window, too.
F. C. Phillips. in London. World.
THE COCAPAH DESERT.