Eagle River review. [volume] (Eagle River, Wis.) 1890-1927, 1897-06-10
CHAPTER XXI.


only stood there by the mantelpiece-tall,
straight. massive, with his eyes bent on
the fire.
1T will please you, am sure I went
on rapidly. "You-you nave wished it
often. Can't you guess it?"
Il am not good at guessing he an
swered constrainedly. ''You had better
| tell me at once"
"Well," said, bursting into the subject
without further prelude, ''Yorke has pro-
posed TO Nettie at last!'
He started. The words certainly reused
| him from his composure.
''Proposedv' he said almost as incred-
ulously as | myself said it a short time
| before "Are you sure?"
''She has just been telling me- an
swered; "she was too elated to keep the
news very long to herself Are YOU
| looking straight up into his face and meet
| ing his eyes-''are you surprsed!'
Very" he said slowly.
"Why?" 1 asked, coloring hotly and in
dignantly "You always thought he was
| fond of her. You always hoped he would
marry her, and now"
''Now," he interrupted, II am not so
sure about his feelings-that is all; and
~
| be the victim of an unworthy caprice"
IL don't understand you," l said,
coldly.
| do you not? Then I will speak more
| plainly. Yorke is not worthy her love,
and | do not think he has given her
his own"
what r,akes you think sop 1 asked
family.
| He answered me in one word:
| Conservation"
| Then [ grew cold, and sick, and afraid.
l knew now the secret of the change in
him. | knew he had guessed Yorke's
feelings for me, and knew, too, that my
own reticence, deception, confusion, had
| been like so many additional proofs for
his suspicious to rest on.
'Are you pleased?" he asked me sud-
denly, after long, dreary pause.
| l started and looked up, but as | met
| his eyes the hot blood once more rushed
to my face and neck. The very certainty
| of misinterpretation only added to my
confusion.
''Of course l am pleased" l said, but
my voice was unsteady; Every pleased
| There is always something delightful to
woman in a friends marriage. IT,
laughing foolishy-'it is the next best
thing to being married herself. And that,
of course, is the event of her life
Il suppose it is" he said, bitterly, and
| turned away. 'It is pity she does not
| give it a little more serious consideration
| than you appear to have DONE
''Do you mean," l said hotly, ''that you
are dissatisfied with me-that you regret
already"
"Regret!' he interrupted, with rising
passion. ''1nat is a poor word-a very
poor word. When one would give ones
life to amend mistake-when one knows
that all that life is marred and spolt by
| reason of it-one feels something moro
| than regret"
my heart; as if words would not come to
relieve or express in any one way this sud.
den, fearful sense of mystery.
"Oh," l cried suddenly, 81 never
thought you could be cruel I never
thought you could misjudge---A''
"And l." he said, bitterly, "nevel
thought that day would come when
| should know to my cost you were not
honest with me. Perhaps with little
sudden break in the deep voice, II over
|
does not seem a trife to me that-that
you should have withheld anything that
was in your heart, or had been in it.
| am not like most men. | told you that
long ago."
eyes," I said helplessly. "But l have
not done you any wreng."
He held up his hand as if to ward off a
blow.
sit was my fault he said bitterly; sit
has always been my fault. l see it now
that it is too late. Ninety-nine people
out of every hundred mar their lives by a
mistake. | am no worse off than-than
the rest of them"
''You do not think of me!' / cried with
the ferceness of desperation. Then my
strength failed; tears burst from my eyes
in flood of unresisting misery; buried
my face in my hands, -sobbing brokeny.
He came and laid his hand gently ON my
head. Once before | remembered that
same action, and how I, in my fond con-
ceit, had fancied it seemed as if he were
blessing me. But now-now-what did it
mean now!
''My DEAR" he said, and his voice trem-
b,ed, II do think of you-how pitifully
and sorrowfully you will never know. 1t
is the sense of that pity and that sorrow
that appalls me- And you are $3.50
young; and What can I do? Heaven
help me, what can l Go? 1t is not in my
power to set you free. Our lives are fet-
tered with too heavy chains for aught but
death to break"
81 wish," l cried stormily, ct would
come! Oh, l wish it would Gomez
His hand dropped. When I at last
choked back my sobs and raised my head,
/ found he had left the room.
For moment sat there quite passive;
my eyes Travelled from point to point
from the e. glass and the ivory brushes
ON the toilet table to the cleaning folds
of the costly satin had worn.
A sort Of numbness settled upon me.
l was wearied out and yet l could not
move. l became conscious of foolish
!. feeling of hatred acainSt that unoffon II; n o.