Macon beacon. [volume] (Macon, Miss.) 1859-1995, 1897-09-11
A LIFE HISTORY.
BY JENNY WREN.


tAN say without VANITY, loohlhR
back over this long stretch OF years,
= that | was not unjustly called the belle
of our town. 1t was a quiet place dur
ing eight long months of the year and
! found it dull enough, and wondered
why il was appointed that | must drag
out my life within its limits, but III" re
naming four months saw it emerge as
The butterfly from its chrysalis, and
waken into such f~ullness of action that
/ it almost compensated. 1t was during
those periods that | learned my beauty
entitled me to a wider sphere, or so !
thought in my rrown Of judg-
ment; but when, at ball or reception, !
saw men leave the richly attired women
whom they met the year round to seek
un introduction to me, simply dressed
and the daughter of a retired officer. II
was little wonder that a blush of con-
scious pride rose to my check, or my
eve burned with a satisfied vanity.
was but IS when ! met Vance Will
rlour. He was double my age, and when
he bent over me with the wonderful
grace of manner he so fully possessed,
or let his eyes dwell on mine with an
impassioned glance, my heart would
throb as a voice within would say:
"This is love-" 1t seemed as though an
emperor had stopped from his throne
to ask the peasant girl to share his high
estate when he at last told me of his
devotion and asked mt to become his
wife. NV father shook his head when |,
ioyously eXultant, asked him to receive
my lover.
"He is not the man to make my bright,
uncaged bird happy" he answered.
"Take care, Madge. No matter how
brightly gilded the bars may be, the
mountain songster will beat out his
life against them in the struggle to be
free
But to all that he might say my ears
were deaf. He could bring forward no
real obstacle, however, and so won at
last reluctant consent, and six months
from the day | met Vance Wilmour |
became his wife. At last was TO see
and mingle with the world. 1t was of
this | thought, rather than the solemn
vows | had just uttered, as side by side
we had babe farewell to the old home,
aud were journeying 10 the new. Still,
all my heart was his, and had he cared
to mold me he might have cast it in any
form.
was not long in finding the emptl-
ness of that | had so desired. The
hometo which my husband had brought
me was perfect in its every appoint
nlent. The suite of rooms he had had
prepared for me to my unaccusto1ned
eye presented a vista of fairyland, and
for a time | was happy, But then, as
my father had predicted, my wings be-
can to beat themselves against the bars.
] learned TO recognize that underneath
the velvet touch was the iron hold, that
/ must stand ever ready with a smile,
faultlessly dressed, to receive him and
those whom he summoned to admire his
captive. No WEAKNESS, 10 fatigue gave
excuse. | learned then why he had
married me. Wealth, station, all were
his. but his pride demanded more. My
beauty he knew would reflect credit
upon his taste. was too young, too ig.
norant to interfere with his pleasures
or assert my rights as a wife. SO he
reasoned, and his judgment served him
well.
For a year there was little to mar the
scene; then my health failed. Excite
ment and constant gayety did their
work. Nature demanded rest and even
he was obliged 10 recognize the neces-
sity. Then followed months in which
scarcely saw him, when he hardly
found time to come to the couch on
which | constantly lay to inquire if |
were better or worse; and when in my
Impotence | would greet him with
words of reproach Or anger he would
silence me by some cutting words OF
scorn, which would leave their sting
for days behind. | was utterly unable tc
cope with him, and when in the spring
three years from the date of our mar
riage he was induced TO join a hunt
ing excursion on the western plains
babe him good-by with scarce a feeling
of regret.
Six weeks later / was one day sum
moned to the presence of a gentleman
who told me with trembling voice ant
pallid lips that | was widowed. Thei
party while hunting had been attacked
by a party of Indians and Vance hat
fallen in the field, while they, to say,
their own lives, had been unable even I,
rescue his body. The shock proved NOR,
than | could bear, and for months the,
thought would not live; but as healtl
and strength crept slowly back a won
derful softness had taken possession O
my heart, and | mourned him with
tender pity, %burying his faults in hi
far-off grave.
As soon as | was able to bear the jour
ney | closed my house and turned m
face to the old home with a great con
tent nesting in my spirit, that the quie
] had once despised again was to b
mine. My dear old father met me wit
open arms, and | felt when pressed t
his breast as though l had gained
haven indeed after my long and storm
voyaging on the sea Of life. Two peace
full years passed away and my father
hair grew white and his form bent.
began to thinl, of the time when
should be left alone in the world-alon
and desolate.
had kissed him good night one ever
ing as passed out and wendell my wa
TO the little village church. Sa
thoughts had brooded in my memor
all day, and | thought thus to dri,
them away. and, entering the sacre
spot whose altar ! had stood before {
a bride, ! fell upon my knees and u
tered a prayer for all that sinful, FOOLS
past.
An earnest, musical voice reused m
and, glancing up, l saw that a stranr,
occupied the pulpit.
! shall never forget the impressic
Edward Fearing made on me til,
rAisli. lad listened heretofore 10 80
mons from a sense Of duty, but of h
every word fell straight upon my 30,
and planted there 4 seed. II was ,
apgk n Ners talking to me-, and