The Mount Holly news. [volume] (Mount Holly, Burlington Co., N.J.) 1891-1942, 1897-07-27
DENISE.

but she, coming closer to him, said
coaxingly:
"Was it not down there in the little
village, close to the mountains, that
you were born, passed your childhood
and became a man? Was it not there
you lived with your aged parents. over
whom we wept together a year since?
wish to see the good old country
house of which you have so often spo-
ken. And the garden, too, which SEEM
ed so large when you were little child.
You shall show me the well where you
used to throw stones to hear them
splash in the water-the tulip tree,
where you found the nest of doves. I
want to see the road you travelled to
the schoolhouse. You used to stop by
the way to eat mulberries, little gour-
mand that you were. How shall laugh
as picture you passing by, when you,
Roger, were not taller than boot and
wore short trousers. On your arm you
carried a basket in which your mother
had placed luncheon Of bread and pre-
serves. No, Roger, shall not laugh.
Do not think me so frivolous. If / wish
to go down there to your native village,
it is because l love you-I love you so
well-and because l am jealous of
past in which / have no share. Perhaps
some day you might think of these
things without thinking Of me. 'Tis
this that grieves me SO. Take me where
you were, mingle me with that which
once surrounded you, so that hence
| fox,fh -.
which am not part, so that l may
never be absent from your memories,
however distant they may be. Speak
ing thus. she raised her lips to his, and
he consented (not without an air of
melancholy because of the proffered
kiss.
The first days passed in this little
village were adorable ones. Cecile en-
joyed everything in the great, lonely
place. Even the ugly, somber streets
delighted her. The villagers who pass
ed turned to look after her, marveling
at her Partisan grace.
One evening there was fete in front
of the town hall-a shooting gallery,
three turnstiles and some wooden
horses. Nine. Prudence, the clairvoy-
ant, was there. Cecile entered the wom-
ans place to learn her fate.
"No enemy seeks to harm you, and
every possible happiness is yours.
All, know it," cried Cecile, fall
ing impulsively upon her husbands
neck, to the establishment of the clair
voyant.
She visited the old house where Rog-
er's mother had died. "What a pity we
are not rich enough to buy it" she
said. Then she made him relate, with
many details, the life he had led when
boy-at what hour he arose, at what
hour he went to bed. She wanted to
know, too, the place at table occupied
by each member of the family and to
hear of those evenings when he sat be-
meath the lamp reading aloud, while the
old mother, listening, would fall asleep
in the great armchair, her feet upon the
fender
But the garden interested her most of
all. She at once recognized the we'll,
and she in her turn dropped in stones
to hear them splash in the water
There were no more doves nests in
the tulip tree. "What pityi''
Behind the hedge ran the road to the
schoolhouse Cecile stained her red
lips nearly black with the juice of the
mulberries, and SO happy was she that
her eyes became clouded with tears of
joy. She followed where Roger led.
He was charmed to see her SO tenderly
/ Qffonfo6 10 oil
and smiled but little, trying in vain to
hide feeling of deep sadness. Yes, tru-
ly, after they had returned to the little
village he was pensive and morose.
One morning he dressed in haste and
quickly left the inn where Cecile was
still sleeping. He did not even place
upon her forehead or lips the kiss that
would have awakened her.
He traversed the village passed the
last house and entered a graveyard
He stopped i'll front of a slab of stone
upon which was inscribed a name,
Denise, and the age, 80 years. .
Here be fell upon his knees, his face
buried in his hands Roger had not
told all to Cecile. He had not related
all his youthful memories She did not
know that he had loved when a child
another child; that the poor little one
nad died Ia the autumn, before having
received his first kiss. But Roger had
never forgotten her. Now, before this
grave where he had knelt down, he
seemed to see her again alive, and so
pretty, with her sweet, pale eyes and
delicate lips which would never again
be red. He lived over again those fur
tive hours of their rendezvous behind
the garden hedge, the hope, the impa-
thence with which he awaited the let
ter which Denise every day as she re-
turned from school would slip beneath
the gate. Here in the silence of the
graveyard he seemed to hear her voice.
But the bitter certainty that she was
dead, Vision of the head as it rested
upon pillow of flowers, of the pale
forehead and closed eyes, overwhelmed
him. He suffered again, after ten years,
as he suffered before. His eyes closed
and tears fell from beneath his lashes
There was a noise behind him. lie
turned. Cecile, who had followed him,
was standing there close to him She |
looked at him. She looked at the grave.
She must have read the inscription, and |
surely she had OWNED ALL He arose
trembling. He dared not say a word to
his wife nor take her hand He moved |
aside, walked away from her and pass
ed out of the graveyard with the air of
child that, being caught III some for
hidden act, takes to flight
He walked long time-it mattered /
not where-across the fields, not know
ing whittier he went, not having the
courage to enter the village. He feared
to meet Cecile, for, loving and jealous
as he knew her to be, she would be furi-
ous-or sad, which would be still worse. |,
Surely she knew now what he had SO
long hidden from her She knew that
he had loved young girl-that he had
loved her tenderly since be still wept
for her. Perhaps she would have par
doned him this early love-this love
that he had felt before he met her, but
she would never pardon the tears that
the old love revived. No, she would
never forgive that. He thought of the
reproaches, the cruel words with which
she would shortly receive him. Vainly
he told himself that this youthful ten.
<1or,,ocr l,ol Lea =, L..