The Wichita daily eagle. [volume] (Wichita, Kan.) 1890-1906, 1900-04-12
The Guest.


| I sat before the fire in my study, I'M
able to open my books, unwilling TO go
| to bed, because of an event. now four
days old, which made sleep and sus-
| tanned mental labor alike impossible.
I had quarreled with Linda.
To realize the seriousness of this low
ers' quarrel one must have known Linda.
To quarrel with her was TO quarrel with
oneself. This night she was far away,
TOO Tar by many scores of miles for me
to go to her, to lay my head on her
knees, as 1 longed to do and ask TO be
forgiven Poets may harness time and
space, but the lover is their bondsman.
Gazing into the fire, which leaped and
fiared as the guests of the midnight tenn
pest shook the chimney, I saw her face
as had last seen it turned to mine:
neither reproach nor sadness in 1t, but
mute wonder. In this look of wonder lay
the sting of my remorse, wholly selfish
1t would appear, since 1 feared this dis
covery of trait or trick of my charac-
ter. never before known to her, might
dull the edge Of her love.
After a succession of gloomy thoughts
born of my bitterness, leading back cir
clewise to 1t again. endeavored TO for
get my trouble; 1 wrote, 1 read with long
tween these efforts. 1 went to the piano
at last, and let my fnfers call from the
keys as they would the music for which
she cared most. It drew the bitterness
from my heart as nothing else could do
but word from her, herself That 1
could not have
A hand was laid upon my shoulder.
/ looked up.
Linda stood before me.
Ch1
cloak of black velvet lined with ernine
Her head was uncovered. Her hair was
disordered as if blown by the wind
Drops of rain trembled upon It,
She gazed down upon me from under
her dropping lids, as she alone could gaze
Her lips were half parted in a wistful
smile. l arose, speeches. with wonder.
She drew my hands into her long, lest
less fingers.
AT the familiar touch, cried:
Linda! Linda!''
I drew her toward the fire, for there
was sense of cold about her. She sank
on some cushions by the armchair I had
left. seated myself in it. She drew
nearer and rested her head against my
knee The heavy cloak had sunk gradu-
ally from her shoulders, revealing
loose gown of white silk. Her long fin
gers moved in and out of its deep lace
trimming.
Linda I said, catching my breath as
a child who sobs, why did you come to
me so far?''
She raised her head and gazed into my
face The depth of tenderness in her
eyes answered me.
Was it to comfort me, Beloved: to tell
me what I do not deserve to be told: to
tell me 1 am forgiven?"
She bowed her head, then let it droop
again, until it rested upon my knee. l
settled myself in the armchair that che
might lean with more ease against me-
The bliss of having her beside me, of
feeling the soft pressure of her cheek,
was almost more than I could bear Rys-
terical sobs again choked me. 1 leaned
over and gathered her into my arms.
pressing my lips again and again into
the soft masses of her hair. The night
wind still fingered in it, In my joy |
had forgotten-what? I shook off the
vague fear, the paralyzing question. the
same instant L conceived them. l drew
her closer to me- She seemed terribly
still, only her long, White fingers moved
restlessly. L ran my hand through her
hair, then drew the dark locks back. that
might kiss her brow.
Linda" 1 murmured bending over her
until my lips touched her forehead-cold.
colder than the night wind, cold as
death!
For Gods sake, Linda!'' 1 cried. tell
me how you came here-the storm! the
night! alone! Linda. did you die?"
Before the day dawned she had answer
ed me. The answer was love, not death
They broke the word to me at sunrise,
not knowing that she herself had been
nv guests that night -Ilnsfnn Past