The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1901-04-28

AT last she came 10. l bent over her
and something was dead. The childhood
had gone from her face. and when she
stood up IL was a woman that answered
me. She showed me more mercy than l
had shown her. l had made her love me-
she said. in that strained new voice Of
hers, and. whether / was Hardie or no,
II was all one. She would SO back 10
her people I'm the States: she was to have
married someone out there-her father had
arranged 1t long ago. and she had agreed
but she could never marry him now.
Forget me-forget all this l urged.
You must i'm time
'She shook her head. She understood
what I had told her. she said. and II IL
were so 1t was best We should separate;
but she could never forget. she would al
ways remember mellow could she forget!
II stood by humbled; and yet my pride
lack OF inclination perhaps IL was. for suf-
fering never holds us when were young
kept me firm. | knew that by rights |
ought to have held out my arms to her ami
begged her forgiveness; instead. l led her
back TO the farmhouse at Swavesey. where
sac lived. There were no kisses by the
road. not even when we parted.
Ssh went on alone at last. IT was over
now. / turned back under the early stars,
knowing that l was the biggest blackboard
that walked the earth-and yet l had
played the part cheerfuliy q dozen times
before. But this was the thirteenth! |
learnt some things as I tramped home 30
Cambridge that evening, and for many
days ahead,
you and the other fellows turned up. l
didn't say anything. being too sick with
myself. Now | had less time for thinking,
and by Christmas ] had forgotten the
whole business and was Raging along III
the usual way.
We went down together next year, and
then came town with it's friendships. l was
happy enough. as you know. l don't think
l gave a thought to Cambridge then, or
for years after. except in the usual way.
There were you and George and Arthur
and Gerry Fling and the Aitchisons-you
remember, you used TO chaff me about the
girl? l was keen enough, but / never spoke
to her except about work and our goings
on. She stcadied me a bit and made me
take the writing seriously. | was great on
it then. not this critical stuff and rubbish
about other peoples work that folks praise
me for to-day. but something of my own.
dolly Atchison was great on 1t, too. but
knew. like !. tie time II takes to get a
footing and enough coin TO go into house
keeping. So We both kept to business and
never said anything about what we hoped.
You knew her-she was gold, that girl-a
woman with a mans head. She was about
the only one Of her kind that l knew-for
we weren't very particular in those days.
and sometimes, when you chaps wondered
what kept me straight. IL was she 1 was
thinking Of, for l couldn't go TO her with
dirty hands, although, perhaps, l did now
and then.
well. you left us; got that step that
took you TO Jamaica. | sobered a bit after
you'd gone. began my novel-not a short
thing, like the two others, but something
decent-something good enough for Dolly.
Perhaps IL might have given her TO me;
made a bit of a hit. | think II would have
done, for | was rising then. and people
were Offering me more work than | could
do. l was close on thirty. had a good
enough little nat In Craven street. and
was making near four hundred "A year: and
we'd agreed on hve-not directly, but both
of us understood.
Dolly was pleased with me. and I was
going across 10 her one day, marching
down Picadilly with my feet on rose leaves,
when | ran into her-not the slip of a girl
/ had known at Cambridge, but a woman
In furs, who walked as though she had
servants. She was paler than she used 10
be, with the pain half asleep behind her
eyes. They caught on to mine: and then
we two stood in the lane again. off the
Huntingdon road. the face | had near
killed opposite. accusing. SO that 1 won
1.r.I The --or. ltr,f. N.ll -
1t all In a flash.
Kid l said, as in the old days, here's
n cab. Jump i'm She obeyed without a
word, and we went on TO my rooms. 1
don't think We spoke. but In my brain was
nothing but Here's your debt; pay it,
You've run up this bill, now pay. You've
been owing for years and must payr The
i~nsistent words drummed on; they followed
me as l led her up to the sitting room.
w were alone and facing one another.
She tried hard for a moment to be herself.
but all these years of waiting were too
much. There she was, trembling like a
child. l didn't think any more, the struggle
was over now. l would pay. Dolly Aitchl-
son-everything must go. The ten years Cf
building and planning that had filled the
interval were wiped out in as many min
utes by this small woman with the accusing
face. / drew her to me and she sobbed.
The light failed and she gained courage
out of the dark.
"'You are still the samei' I had said.
~ gave you all l had then. I have had
nothing TO go on whit wasn't much. for
I'm not c~lever-only love, and you took all
I had
What could I answer? Kid. you have
come back-you will never leave me again
The words were sad enough. but owed
them. and somehow / seemed a better man
after they were spoken. 1t grew late and
she had to go back TO her friends. She
was staying with some people in Seymour
street. l took here there, and t~hen-well,
/ had paid my debts. but the future! There
was Dolly Aitchison and my work. l had
never said anything to Dolly, but we I'M
derstood one another. a month or two
more and we would have been engaged.
II went there next day and told her; told
her the whole miserable story. and she lis
tened with a hand i'm mine.
"'Yes. Dickie. you must pay she said
when it was over; and never a word
against the other woman. never a word
against me. And when 1 rose to go. and
- 4 .ho~a hrOLap and ho,Lv,,D@ che mat