The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1896-08-23

the long, terrible years without something
| TO help US? Don't think me ungrateful.
dear. You are a good girl. Beatrice. You
] will have a happy life before you. be-
| cause you are married 10 a good man who
| loves you, and yOu love him, / know But
you could not do my pleasure for me. 1
! could not bear that any should do IT, 1
| have come all the way back TO India TO
do IT, and it is all have to live for!'
Something in her face and voice brought
the tears into my eyes. Her face was al
ways sad, but as she spoke there seemed
a hundred years of agony gathered to-
! gether IN her large eyes, and the sorrow
/ full curves of her beautiful mouth I could
not answer her for some time When L
did, all the longing to know what her life
| had been burst out whether / willed or
no.
JOAN" I said. Joan. what is the aw-
/ full sorrow that saddens your lfe-you
who are so beautiful, so different from all
| Of us, so perfectly different-why is it
that everything is sad for you, and we
ordinary everyday women laugh and chat
ter and enjoy our lives? Why, my great
| est sorrow is when the post doesn't bring
me a letter from Walter. That is the only
thing that ever worries me. Everything
besides is jolly and bright, and 1 only feel
that it is a good thing to be alive. If you
only knew how I pity all the poor dead
people-if-'
Hush! hush, dearr she whispered, hur-
riedly. And yet, why should you not give
your fair young pity to the dead? Yes, my
Beatrice, pity them-the young, the bright,
| the noble, who are all sleeping so quietly,
where they cannot know we weep for them
and pity them, where they cannot hear
us any more. Pity them? All, yes! But pity
the living too, sometimes" q,
was startled. Had my reference to the
dead called up some remembrance of her
husband? Was it grief for him that had
| her ~ a &
yet it could not be, for Helen had once
told me that Robert Farquhar had been
a beast, and got drunk, and generally be-
haved himself like an animal. What could
it be then? At last, after thinking deeply
for some moments, Joan turned again TO
me.
Il think she said, that I will tell
you the story of my life. You are begin
ming your own, with gladness. That is
right. But you have a tender heart, Beat
rice, and If I did not tell you about my
self, you might think my words strange,
and my whole life unreal. Can you listen
to it, wonder; and will you believe that
| every word is true, and that / have not
added to it one syllable to gain your SYM
pathy?"
half rose from my position, and I
kissed her as she bent towards me, and
then with her hand on mine, she told me
the story of her life. 1t is many years
ago now, but time has taken none of the
details of that story from my memory,
and I can even see her sometimes in my
freight dreams, sitting as 1 saw her that
night in her white dress, with the red
glow of the fire upon it, and the shadowy
CLEANS resting on her beautiful face and
sorrowful eyes.
II was born out here in India" she said,
and unlike most children my mother kept
me with her until l was 10 years old.
had one sister, eight years younger than
myself. Soon after my tenth birthday
we went to England, as my little sister
was too delicate to stand the climate of
India, and the doctors said she would
die unless she were taken home. SO my
mother left my father for time and
took up her residence in Dorsetshire,
where she had lived as a child. Her
health had never been good, and as l
grew older I often wondered whether in
a few months time I might not find my
| self motherless and sisterless. For hVe
years my father remained in India with
out coming home at all. At the end Of
that time, which l think now was the hap
| piest in my life, he came. His service
was at an end, and he had only to take
his pension and settle down in peace for
the rest of his days. We might nave
been happy for him. Until 1 was 10 dld
not know him as he was-selfsh, cold
hearted avaricious, cruel All! Beatrice,
man form. DO not shudder, dear. l am
not unjust. Wait till you hear the rest
before you Judge"
She Gained herself with a visible effort
and continued:
MY father" she said. "hated the coun-
try, and after his first visit to us on his
arrival in England he seldom came near
us at all. He allowed my mother a very
small sum upon which to live and bring
us up. and he kept the remainder of his
income for his own pleasures. He look
ed very young for his age, and had not
lost his health or injure his constitution
by being in India so many years, as most
men do. and his one idea was to live well
and enjoy every moment of his life regard
less of every other consideration. NO
idea of duty ever entered his head. 1
believe few of his friends knew that ne
possessed a wife and children. He never
spoke of us to them, and my mother,
being at this time a confirmed invalid,
never disturbed his peace by going TO
London and insisting on sharing his pos
sessions. l can only dimly guess at Whal
her life must have been in the early days.
She was always weak delicate woman
unselfish and retiring. who would never
have had the moral and physical strength
to battle with a man of my fathers tenn
permanent. When 1 was seventeen she
died.
"All that winter she had been ailing,
twice during four months he did not
grasp the fact that her days were num-
bered. A week before the end came,
wrote to him in London. l told him she
was very i'll, and the doctor confirmed my
report. But do you think he came to try
and cheer her, or make up by a few days
kindness for all the neglect of years? Not
he. l got letter to say he was engaged
on some important business which would
keep him in town two or three days, and
that he would come when ne could A
week later she was dead. The end came
suddenly. I wired to him when we first
remarked the change for the worse, but
my mother had been dead three hours be-
fore my father arrived. No signs Of re-
greet. no feelings of sorrow, showed them
selves in his hard cynical face and calm
manner. I believe he just looked at his
wife, lying cold and still in her small
room, and then set to work to hunt over
| her few possessions and secure what he
considered worth having amongst them.
After the funeral he stayed one day,
| tearing up old letters and papers of my
mothers, and packing away her trinkets
and va hlab lcs in a box Then ne went TO