The Somerset herald. [volume] (Somerset, Pa.) 1870-1936, 1895-05-08

up the window and reached out an i'm
patient hand for the letters he brought
They Were all from schoolgirl friends
she saw, as she glanced at the hand
writing on the envelopes. She wa,
not in the mood to care much for them
"Drearily uninteresting," she said Il
herself as she opened one. a slip o
paper dropped from it unheeded
Eleanor read on lis.lessly. Suddenly
her eyes kindled. She had come to
this sentence: ~ used to hear you
speak Of Tom Rhodes-an aspirant o
yours, was he not? Can this marriag,
notice | enclose be his?"
Eleanor picked up the bit of paper
from the floor and studied. IL was cut
from the Denver Times, and it read:
Thomas j. Rhodes of Connecticut 10
Margaret Eliza, daughter of John w.
Riding, ESD, president OF the Wheel
of Fire Mining company.
80 tina. was what had become OF
Tom. She had not remembered the J.
in his name, but of course il must he
Tom. There could hardly be another
| Tom Rhodes of Connecticut. 1t sound
cd prosperous-this marriage TO the
daughter Of the president of a mining
company. So this was the end of her
one true lover. She had never said
before, even To herself, that she knew
Tom loved her. But she acknowledg-
eel il to her own heart now. Ii was as
if a window had been opened into the
past and a great flood of light poured
from day whose sun had long since
/ set.
Yes, Tom had loved her, and Tom
would have understood. He and she
might have been one if only she had
known. If only that weak ambition
she used to think 80 strong and fine
had not held her heart i'm its thTall
She had the New England conscience,
and it was borne in upon her mind
that she ought to wish Tom to be hap
she? She tried to cheat herself into
thinking 50, but her soul deiied her.
"You know WE'LL" cried the voice Of
conscience within her, ''that you don't
want him TO he quite happy. You
wouldn't like him to lie absolutely
miserable, but you want him to be
something short of satisfied, to say to
himself every day and every day 'Ah,
Eleanor would not have done this or
said that Eleanor would have under
stood better.'n
And then conscience cried aloud,
ooh, you poor, small soul Is that the
best of which YOU are capable? ? You
would not care for him when he might
have been. yours. He was not grand
enough for you ,he,., and now you
would wish him something short of
life's best good ~ And she listened TO
the voice, and, afraid of herself, she
cried out for strength, and il WAS as if
her guardian angel leaned from the
heights Of heaven and drew her quiv-
ering soul upward to n purer air. Then
the impulse came to her to write a let
ter which should convey To Tom her
wishes for his happiness-wishes Who'll
iy honest now.
She fingered over it for some time.
She began it "Dear Tom" Then she
bethought herself of propriety and be-
gan over again and wrote:
DEAR Mr.. RHODEs-I have just
chanced to see in Denver papers the
announcement of your marriage. Odd
" enough, Just before il came 10 me,
had been especially thinking about
YOU. am 30 years old this day, and IL
seems natural that my thoughts should
be busy with my youth, which | some
how feel ends with to-day, and OF
which, until you went away, you were
part. FJr y0I new life j. just De-
ginning. Mine j. but the same old
story, only il seems as If the rest OF 1t
would be what they call in books an
appendix" | write this letter to wish
you Joy and peace and all that yoar
heart most Graves.
think | know you well enough to
be sure that YOU would not have mar
ried without love, and love j. the great
est thing i'm the world. May all its
fullness and blessedness be yours now
and in time to come, 50 pTays the friend
of your earlier years.
ELEASoR GRAY.
She addressed this letter to Thomas
Rhodes, care of John Riding, Esq,
Denver She scaled and posted it,
and then the 3O-year-old young woman
felt that she had indeed turned the last
page Of her youth and the 'appcndix"
of her life was already begun.
1t was not long after this that new
conner to the quiet old town of Byeiield
made Miss Gray's acquaintance. Here
at last-so it seemed-came the verita-
ble knight of romance of whom Flea
nor had dreamed. Austin Bland was
poet and painter both. One glory was
not enough for him. He had come To
the little Connecticut town To paint
some ofits beguiling bits ofstream and
meadow land, some Of it, famous Old
trees that seemed fairly human
they had lived - long and were - full
of wayway individuality. His pict-
ures. he said, were for sale. His poems
on the other hand, We're no; the prop
erty of the world. He supposed it was
unfortunate, bat the truth was he was
utterly objective His verses, such -
they were, were the very cry of his
heart, and surely they did not belong
i'm the market place.
From the first Bland seemed 10 take
an especial interest in Eleanor. Nat
uralIy this interest flattered her. Ii
had been many years since any man
had 80 persistently sought her society,
and now, here in her appendix of
life, came the conquering hero, ready
to turn her subject for her sake, eager
TO paint her charms ard TO sing her
praises. Was il, then, for him that she
had unconsciously been waiting, and
was it when she was past 30 that she
was really to begin to live? Ii seemed
so just at first.
Bland had brought one or two good
letters. for even in rural Ryefield let
tiers were necessary, and he had met
Eleanor at high tea at the rectory
the very first week after his arrival. 1t
was the glorious midsummer, the long
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