The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1898-01-09


as she was being carried to Il 81. resting
place. And so In memory CT er, he ever
loved TO play with peevi'sr Ceiling rhe melo-
| dy with which he hsG tried 10 comfort ner
| and give the longir.. of n t.earr express
| sion. You know WotdswoI n in his great
! ode says a timely uttsrance gives seliei to
| the overburdened heart and makes it again
strong. This is one of the great services
Of music. 1T gives expression to emotions
| which can be expressed in no other way.
| and by that expression the soul Of man is
strengthened and lifted up.
But l must try and play The Last Hope
such an enthusiast over Chopin, Wagner and
the other mmortals. / believe you are
broad and liberal enough to see also the
beauty in this simple melody
| How strangely were blended in Dora S
double consciousness the strains of Gott-
| De Idzst and by her friend and lover two
years before. And with the notes of this
/ revelation OF human sorrow We're also heard
the words of DR.. Van Auleys interpreta-
ton:
Il think you can see. Miss Winford,'' he
| said, turning around towards her "how
this melody has often brought to me a
message of consolation, of hope, and of
| healing. There is a half-concealed tone Of
promises a restoration of lost happiness,
which must have suggested to the signora
that she and her son would meet again.
You notice that Gottschalk begins with a
| statement in few broken notes of the dis
| appointment that has come into her life
| from the removal of health, friends, and so
much which once had been essential to her
| happiness. Then comes a little upspringing
! of hope, which is almost Immediately over
| ruled by the dominant sorrow. Just as the
wounded lark, whose home is in the skies,
| tries to scar aloft; but there is no strength
IN his wings T and he sinks YEARLY to the
| feeling shall be victor, hope or sorrow,
merging at length in the harmony of the
! aria which beautifully declares that the
! heart must be the home of both For you
| see that each pathetic lamentaton is i'm
| mediately accompanied by beautiful note
ne hnrl tod
| to give itself up more and more to the sense
| C( loss the message of hope makes a more
frequent appeal: suggesting, as | said be-
| come back the lost happiness be restored. =
| The voice in Dora's memory ceased; and
| another scene came, before her mental vision
with still greater VividnesS.
She and Lillian had been for horseback
| ride with DIR: Van Auley, and on their re-
| turn, as he had dismounted to help them
from their saddles, he placed q. letter in
| Dora's hand With smile of tender mean
| ing. an expression in the eyes made up OF
| doubt and uncertainty and yet OF glad re-
| lief he sprang back upon his horse and gal
| loped down the avenue.
| It was not till half an hour later that
| Dora found moment alone to read the let
/ ter, which was destined to be the cause of
not only the greatest happiness, but of her
Dear Miss Winford." 1t began, st have
been with the wounded at Sedan, and been
| through some very trying scenes in this
country; yet have never felt myself to be
/ a coward till now. ! am cowardly enough
1 to write you instead of speaking. During
the last two months l have tried so often
| to tell you my heart but words have failed.
/ have gone to see you, resolving that 1t
would be my last day of uncertainty; then
some interruption, the dread of refusal,
| and many other things have prevented my
/ speaking. VIII you forgive me now for
writing? I know / shall not see you alone
during our ride; probably there will be no
chance after. / feel I cannot wait another
| day. My patience with myself is utterly at
an end. Dora, | love you. and l want you
but my heart IS filled with you. can
never be happy away from you. 1 cannot
| describe to you how this feeling has grown
up in my heart. You seem to have taken
| a place there which has always been yours
! by right 1t seems as though have loved
| you always. Now, will you let me love
you. my own beloved you couldn't prevent
! that but will you give me the right to love
you? Will you open just a little corner of
your heart to me? You have all mine. If
you cannot love me, Dora, let me know by
means of your silence. Don't answer this
| letter at all if you are not willing to be my
/ wife I could never forget the words-they
would burn themselves into my memory
/ like fire. / am weak and cowardly, know;
| please forgive me for it. If you are willing
| to take me- unworthy of you as | am, and
/ love me just little in return for the love |
give you in such overlooking measure send
me just a line TO let me know that l may
Dora waited to speak with her father be-
fore she answered DR.. Van AuleyS letter.
] The answer was brief. and yet to any one
|
| 1t would have been more than satisfying.
| 1t ended by making an appointment for the
| following. day at o'clock.
| That was the end of this brief dream of
love and happiness. Dora had nothing to
remember but weeks and months of heart
! ache and miserable suspense. DR.. Van Au-
ley did not come either that day or the day
after. A week dragged slowly by, and she
heard nothing. Could her letter have been
lost? Mr.. Winford assured her that he had
put it carefully in his pocket with several
other important papers. He had taken them
all out together and mailed them himself.
Sometimes in spite of her heavy heart.
Dora caught herself thinking, half whimsi-
| cally of the many novels she had read
whose plots turned on the embarrassments
caused by lost or intercepted letters. With
a sort of grim humor she would view the
matter as if aloof from herself, and say
that were she writing a novel, she would
never choose so trite end commonplace a
device If she were to make her heroine
suffer from either enemies or adverse cir
cumstancs it would be by something very
unusual, even startling. But Dora was no
heroine of any fanciful romance. She was
simply living, suffering woman, perplexed
] and thwarted and even If what thWarted
her was a common thing, her suffering was
just as hard to bear.
The troublel could not be kept from Lii
liam, though Dora would gladly have been
| spared her indignant assertions that Dr'
Van Auley was the most despicable OF men
"A f1irt. who had exacted this confession Of
| love but to make a jest of it or TO minister
to his vanity. DOraS faith In MIN was not
really shaken, though the poison ol nel si -
! ter's words had so far an influence as 10
! rouse her pride and help her 10 resist lhe
impulse to write again. But nnally even
| this lost it's power. She yielded TO the I'M
| pulse and one lonely evening wrote Dr. van
! Auley a long letter which she sent by a
! trIstv messenger The letter came back
unopened and with it the intelligence tnat'
much to the surprise of his frlends, Dr an
! Auley had suddenly left Boston ana gone
once more abroad. ,s
Then Dora felt indeed that she could
never write again. She knew she must for
| get the brief, alluring dream OF love ana
| of happiness.
! Another thing which proved Dora TO be
! no heroine of an ordinary romance was that
| she neither went into a convent, nor TOOK
| a long journey up the Nile, nor spent heI
| even devote herself to Browning or tSmer-
| SON much as she loved them. She SIMPLY
| went on in her old busy life; keeping mousse
| riding her favorite horse, paying visits,
| playing bezique with her father.
| The season was. drawing to a close, ana
! n round of dinners, balls and receptions GER
! tainly helped her, though they did not rem
| der her the service her father hoped they
| might when he insisted on the performance
! of every social duty.
| Dora knew she could never forget the
| man who lad so stirred the depths of her
fcha xvQC nf strong a