Santa Fe daily New Mexican. [volume] (Santa Fe, N.M.) 1885-1897, 1897-05-14
ALL FOR LOVE.

A grave faced, broad shouldered young
Englishman was pacing the deck of an At
lantic liner bound for New York.
He was big and prosperous looking.
Perhaps the heavy chinchilla overcoat with
high collar turned up about his ears to
protect him from the stiff, salt scented
breeze lent him this air of prosperity. His
blue eyes looked out steadfastly, little
sternly maybe, at the empty deck and the
gray waste of waters The other passen-
gers were singing and dancing in the cab
in, but George Reynolds found the society
of the lowering sky and the lonely stretch
Of waters more to his taste.
The tinkle of a musical instrument fell
upon his ear. Was it the piano in the cab
in speeding the feet Of the dancersl Not
that. The sound was wild and plaintive
and in keeping with the storm threatening
day. The Englishman followed the strange
music to it's source. Down among the
Storage passengers a young girl was
drumming broken tambourine bedeck-
ed with soiled ribbons. She sat a little
apart from the rest her head bent over the
instrument, which sobbed and sang alter
nately beneath her touch.
n pCliU, WlICullhS CIOIIc saw blC uuUcL-
tive attitude of the English intruder.
"Play something gay for the gentleman,
Felice," she whispered.
The girl lifted an oval face Of dark per-
lection, swept laughing glance from her
slumbrous black eyes at the young man,
and the wailing strain changed to bar
barrie song of adventure and prowess, of
beauty and love. She sang too in low,
subtle voice with weird notes in it. The
Englishman did not understand the words,
but the mystic language of youth and hope
and waiting love was tantalizingly intel
ligible.
He looked long at the dark, birdlike
head, the slim, nervous, brown fingers, the
tawdry gypsy f1nery and listened to the
velvety contralto voice. He was drunk with
rapture.
"Ah! But you do not know the Ian
guage of the hills and the rivers and the
woods. Come with me and learn them,
my own. The smoke of this great city sti-
fies me. Its roar makes me deaf.
cat night, when you sleep, I push aside
the curtains that may see the moon, and
she talks to me mysteriously, and think
l am in u camp in the mountain road
where smell the pine trees and where the
falling stream sings to me. Oh, dear one,
must 60 or die.
George Reynolds listened sadly to the
words of his gypsy wife. He had married
her when they reached New York. They
lived in a pretty suburban cottage, and he
was engaged in small but thriving bust
ness in the city. His dream of wife and
home had been realized. That Of a compe-
tency had almost taken form. The gypsy
girl was affcctionate. She was true, but
the barbarous instincts of her ancestors
could not be wholly crushed.
Gifts and caresses no longer diverted
her. She wept on his shoulders each even
ing when he came home. She craved the
wild freedom of her girlhood life. She
could not live without it.
"You are used to the factory, and the
shop and the crowded street, (" she said,
"but they kill me. Unjust go, but will not
you go, too my husband?'
He lifted her arms gently from about
his neck and went out into the street. For
hours he walked about aimlessly. He
could not restrain her longing for her old,
wandering life. He might be cruel Jail
er, but then she would learn to hate him.
1t would be worse than death to see her
turn from him in fear. But the business
and the home! All the instincts of his
conservative ancestors in trade rose in re-
bellion against giving them up. When he
unlocked the door and stepped into the
little parlor, he had not decided
His wife had thrown herself upon the
sofa in passion of tears Childlike, she
had cried herself to sleep. She sighed and
her lips trembled as her sturdy, troubled
husband looked down upon her
The struggle was over.
He kissed her forehead.
II will give up all for you, Felice," he
said
"The gypsy king is dead, said the
jewellers in south San Francisco to each
other, and they went to the camp to view
the remains.
He lay in coffin that looked strangely
out of place in the small tent 1t was as
elegant as that in which the rich factory
owner had been buried the week before.
His features were calm and strong, and
his limbs must have been very powerful
in life. His gray hair had still some gold,
en- threads in it. His skin was rs fair az
VII lIlluiIt y. lit Is II NIllG Wulb'
pered the curiosity seekers and stole away
to gossip about it.
A small dark woman, pretty still, al.
though past her prime, wept broken heart.
edly over the coffin. "Comc away mother,
you must rest" said tall young man
who stood beside her. she has blue eyes,
whispered a girl who was peeping into the
tent. Whoever heard of Il blue eyed
gyrsy?"
The funeral service was read next day
by an Episcopal Clergyman In robes.
George Reynolds was an honest man,
he said "a devoted husband and father. ;"
1t was true. Was his sacrifice too greatf
Is the motto, All for love and the world
well lost, more ignoble than CAN for the
world and love we'll lostp"
The dead mans face was very strong
and very peaceful. Ada Patterson in st.
Louis Republic.