The Scranton tribune. [volume] (Scranton, Pa.) 1891-1910, 1896-05-14
1T is DECREED.
Written for Our Woman's Paper.


will explain itself: although 1t Is sever
al years since l left Scranton, and my
visits have been the proverbial ones
few and far between"-yet l stil call
1t home and keep in touch with 1t. es-
pecially through the columns of its
newspapers, which l receive daily, ow-
ing to the courtesy of the exchange edi-
tors of The World. Hence l have learn
ed of the fact that a woman's paper Is
to be published soon, and like Glory
McQuirk am desirous of being in 1t.
l therefore send herewith q manuscript
story of twelve or fifteen hundred words.
as the contribution of a Scranton wo-
man to the enterprise. and hope it will
not be the less acceptable because / am
| no longer living there.l
Here Is the story Of one who lived
and loved and endured. The veil of the
unseen was lifted that he might see,
and the vision made him content. 1t
was on this wise:
The Dabneys of Merry Oaks had been
for generations a race of handsome and
talented men. Wealthy, prominent,
able, they had filed positions of State.
But they We're of hot spirit, and had
such a record of fights and feuds that
others feared to cross their paths.
In their way they were honorable,
being open in their enmity and cour-
ageous in their warfare, taking as well
as giving outside of overweening
pride no one could say word against
any Dabney of Merry Oaks that ever
lived. until the last two generations.
In them the open hate of honest war
fare degenerated into plots, intrigues
and secret assault, and 1t was only
through the merest technicalities and
| the free use of money that ignominious
punishment was not mcted out to them.
The last one. Miles Dabney, left one
child, noble looking boy of fourteen.
who apparently had none Ofthe recently
developed failings of his family, al
though he had much of the original
taint, and angry pride.
Two days after his fathers burial this
boy, Philip, was thrown from his horse
and injured SO that for weeks he was at
the point of death and recovered only
to be helpless cripple. His mother.
than whom no sweeter soul had ever
lived. devoted all her time to him and
softened his affliction with her tender
ness and love. The best teachers were
procured for him. He studied, read,
thought much. His table was covered
with books and pamphlets, intersrers d
with microscopes. boxes with birds
eggs, flies, bugs. even worms. Children
loved him and stood by his wheeled
chair for hours, listening as he gravely
drew their attention to the beauty and
the curiosity of common things. His
room itself was cabinet in which was
gathered minerals. shells, fossils and
also historic articles from all parts of
| the world.
At twenty he took up the study of
the law. At twenty-five he. was
esquire Dabney," and men said that
but for his misfortune he would have
been one of the best lawyers Of the
State. He thought he had become
reconciled to his lot when the time that
tried his soul came.
He was eight and twenty. Hair OF
his lifetime had been spent in that
wheeled chair in which he sat this sweet
summer morning, gazing with troubled
eyes at the far-off, dim, blue hills. Why
| need this unknown cousin come from
her northern home to gaze with pitying,
perhaps scornful, eyes upon such q
wreck as he?
Away on the dusty stage road, wind
ing through the fields and among the
oaks he saw the carriage coming. A
few moments more and it was there.
He saw a woman. tall, fair. grave, yet
withal bright and sweet looking, and
dressed in something dark, soft and
clinging. He heard kind voice with
no trace of pity nor of scorn. call him
cousin Philip. AS he felt the touch of
her friendly hand the dread rolled away
from his sensitive soul.
His cousin stayed with them all sum-
mer and became the brightest presence
their quiet, saddened home had ever
known. For eight years Myra Clifford
had been a toiler for her daily bread In
a position of responsibility: therefore
at twenty-five her face might well be
grave and thoughtful. But that grave
face was often alight with smiles. sne
would come in as delighted as a child
If she had been fortunate enough to find
for Philip the feather of bird or a
bright colored moth or a pebble. She
seemed to love to make him smile and
would watch his face for a passing
CLEAN Of pleasure.
There were but two days left ere she
would leave them. Philip sat in his chair
in his room alone, struggling with self
till drops of sweat started on his fore
head and his white lips trembled.
If he could hut keep her. He loves
her so. But what has he to offer? A
manned and broken body; manned
and broken life. He looked at the grand
faces of his ancestors, staring at him
dimly through the twilight from their
gilded frames. He cried in anguish re.
membering the promise of his youth
20, let me see myself like these. Let
me see what might have been had the
promise Of my youth been fulfilled"
He laid his head on the table at his
side and wept such tears as only strong
natures can weep He felt q touch or
his shoulder and then q well-remem.
years. q voice he loved, despite of evil
or of good report. said: my son, look
and have your wish"
Raising his head he seemed to look
from his room into another just like It.
except that 1t was light, not in the shadow
of coming night as where he sat. There
We're the portraits on the walls; the
table, the books, the chairs, even the
vase of flowers at his side. And there
he stood himself. tall, erect, athletic
manly, the handsomest Dabney Of them
all. A longing sigh escaped the watch.
er's lips; but as he gazed the features
changed. The face grew hard and cold
and dissipated. Deep lines furrowed
1t. With straining eyes he watched the
| figure throw cards upon the table; then
lift liquor and drink long and deep
Through the open door he saw come q
vad, youth Of nineteen he might be-
Nut he was wild. He, too. drank. Then
1t seemed as II words passed between
fat>er and son, and then what seemed
blow, followed by a woman's cry
Then all Nas gone, except that room
within q rocSl remained. He saw q
coffin there and<n 1t lay himself. dead in