The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1902-06-08

/ South Kensington.
He loved her. but he had not dared to tell
her so. The shadow that lay over his whole
life could not be lifted. He felt that he
ought never to see her again. But he told
his grandmother he had fallen in love with
Muriel Gray
Mrs. Henson threw UP her hands in pre-
tended dismay. My dear boy. what ca
lamity! And you have told her SOP
NO. no. granny. 1 may be fool. but
hope 1 am a gentleman. 1 know that 1 can
not marry her. and so 1 have not been so
dishonorable as to make love TO her.
know quite we'll what my duty is. and
mean TO do it. When I say goodbye to
Muriel tonight 1t must be forever and
| ever. but she will never know that may
heart is broken"
Good, brave boy,' said his grandmother.
patting him on the shoulder. Turn your
back upon temptation, Alan. and do your
duty Then heavens blessing will rest upon
| you"
And for the first time in his life Alan
shook off her hand impatiently and fiounced
himself out Of the room.
| The old lady chuckled to herself.
He has fallen in love with her." she
said TO Lord Learman that evening. ''but
he is determined TO bid her an eternal fare
! we'll"
BLESS my SOUL" But that's very bad,
| Ellen"
ION the contrary it's very good"
He will go away and forget her"
Not he. He would, no doubt. if the
course of true love ran smoothly. but when
| it doesn't man never forgets."
49, oh mr. q
old man put out his hand and grasped the
old wcman's. II never forgot you, know,
and 1 was miserable after 1 married poor
! Blanche"
We'll, 1 don't mean my boy to be mis-
cradle. He has got to marry money, no
doubt, but If he can love the woman who
| has got it, he will be happy, and love comes
first Let those contradict that assertion
who dare
Meanwhiio, at the other end of the room.
a great and ever increasing sadness
brooded
Muriel could not sing Alan could not talk.
All the little jokes fell fiat. They could
neither Of them laugh. Her slender fingers
wandered vaguely over the ivory keys. but
somehow they fell into minor key, and a
little plaintive undercurrent of melody
SKINNED like shadow through their words
| and looks.
will he give up that woman for my
sake?" thought Muriel.
"Will she think me brute If 1 go away
| without speaking" thought Alan. and their
| locks met In an agony of doubt and Of en-
! barrassment.
AS the evening drew to close, Muriel.
! but for womanly pride, would have been in
tears; and although her pride sustained her
outwardly il made her appear rather cold
| and distant. so that Alan said to himself:
After all she does not love me. 1t is only
| l who suffer-
| And all the time Muriel was saying to her
self: IF he would only just say once L love
your then L would let him go and never
trouble him again. 1 could live on those
| three words forever.
| But he never said them.
At the last their parting was very demure
and quiet. They were both pale, and their
hands were cold as ice.
"Good-bye!" he said. You have been
very kind to me-"
Have II" she answered, absently. II
didn't mean to be-" and perhaps he under
stood the enigmatical words.
Come along, Alan. Our fly has been
waiting half an hour" Grief Mrs. Henson,
and the young people moved forward side
by side into the front room. If their feet
were like lead, their hearts were heavier
still.
The Hensons were leaving early the next
morning. Just they reached the door
Alan said suddenly to Muriel: II wish you
could see Henson Towers, then you would
understand"
$50 she shall see it," cried Mrs. Henson.
briskly. Il promise you that, Muriel. You
shall see Henson some day."
But Alan shook his head sadly. and in an
other moment the formal good-byes were
| over and the door had closed upon the de-
parting guests
| A month went by. Thirty-one weary,
| tagging days that dragged themselves
slowly and laboriously away. Muriel had
| gone back TO her mothers in London. 1t
was now August, and the weather was
heavy and sultry. Mrs. Gray never left
home. There was no autumn outing for
her daughter. Muriel could not possibly
want change, she argued, not unreason-
! ably, after six months OF such beautiful
| bracing air as Brighton. Perhaps she was
right but London in August is very quiet
/ and dull, and Muriel told herself that it
was owing TO the season OF the year that
| she felt so depressed and out of spirits.
| The distant South Kensington square was
! scarcely a cheerful place. Mrs. Gray's
4 Jointure was small. She was feckless,
extravagant woman, who had ever been
| in the habit of letting her money dribble
away uselessly, and her husband had real
| lied this fact and had not left her the
wherewithal to fritter away his hard
| earned gains.
His daughters large fortune was very
much tied up in the hands of trustees, so
that it could not be touched till Muriel was
| twenty-one. Moreover, one of the condi-
! tons OF Mrs. Grays quarterly payments
was that her daughter should be kept in
! ignorance of the inheritance until her
| twentieth birthday. That would leave her
| a year to settle what she would do with
it when she got it. Mr.. Gray had thought.
! Mrs Gray lived simply enough, with two
| maids. She was a constant invalid and
| never entertained; her doctor was now her
| chief solace in life. 1t was a dull home for
| a bright young thing like Muriel, certainly.
| but she had never found herself quite so
miserable in it as she was now.
Up in Westmorland Alan was scarcely
more happy. although he had many more
! Sha Md uaS tha