Butler citizen. [volume] (Butler, Pa.) 1877-1922, 1902-01-16
THE VOICE OF
AN ECHO a ;5Ssy ois roa,. OF two

looking into the pine clau aulphllAet-
Ter of the cliffs. which lay in stiffness
beneath the spell OF a September night.
The black hollow of the bridge, Wit
its one moonbeam sharp across the
floor. contrasted with the awful splen-
dor of the granite gorge, buttressed
nacIed in every rising tier, I'M
-r ..e flood of ghostly light, and if
t. -nly object of the couple in coming
here was to see the view they We're
dr:ply repaid From their conversa-
ton since they left the hotel, which
now lay behind them hidden by
fringe of the forest it would have been
difficult to say that this was not their
only object. The small talk of ac-
quaintanceship, friendship and even
love is within certain limits and among
.people habituated to each others con-
ventions practically indistinguishable.
Frequently it is difficult to decide why
the degrees should be of so much con-
sequence to the parties
1t was knowledge of the world and
the good temper of experience that
kept Mrs. Hugonin and Arthur Kin
naird on perfectly unruflied terms with
each other. The conviction that he had
long ago forgiven her, gratifying as 1t
once had been, was now of such long
standing that it had become confused
with her earlier and less justifiable
conviction that he ultimately would
forgive her. Thus secure in vindica-
ton. the lust for which the dying Eve
| bequeathed to all her sex, Mrs. HUI
conin could without the slightest re-
| Election upon her widowhood accept
once more the companionship of a man
| who tolerated life as comfortably as
Arthur Kinnaird. The imminence of
| the climacteric which she knew to be
threatening him was not to be read
| from his figure. His step. was alert,
his cheeks were bronzed, his tastes
were rational. and what more could
he desire?
She pushed back her dark hair under
| its somewhat youthful cap, and, lean
| ing her elbows on the ledge, gaZed
| without speaking at the haunted detile.
| Kinnaird gave little laugh behind her.
Margaret" he said, upon my word, it
seems as if we were boy and girl
again"
"Why. particularly" she asked,
without turning her head.
| "Oh, all this summer" he replied.
She did not ask him to be more ex-
plicit. 'It is certainly an ideal place"
she said with a half sigh. yet it is
foolish to say that the beauties of ma
| ture restore ones youth. One may feel
| young again, but one is not really any
the less dispasslonate."
81 am not so sure of that" said Kin
naird II should Ike to argue the point
| with you-if it could be argued
"You men are all alike" said Mrs.
Hugonin with an inconsistent shrug OF
her shoulder. "You give up. to logic
what was meant for conversation"
Kinnaird stroked his mustache
thoughtfully for a moment. "And so
you think me dispassionate" he OBJ
served.
Your said Mrs. Hugonin, turning
| with a delightful lanGh- -..Why, Ar
thur, there isn't a sentiment or a con-
vlction to whose support society could
order you to contributor
"If you mean that" he said slowly,
"it is quite as feared"
"As you fearedY
,"You still believe me capable of as
much mistaken self control as l once
was. And" he added calmly, 81 don't
| wonder"
Though there was no bitterness ap-
parent in his tone Mrs. Hugonin was
startled Really, this is unlike you,
Arthur she said gravely, but yet with
q sense of amusement. 'You petulant
with your past? You provoked with
your recollections? Indeed, / have
| mistaken YOU"
He laughed, but gently. Come" he
said, you have no right to be ironical.
Though l once let you go, it was be-
cause thought you wished to be re-
leased"
Upon my word, Arthur,b said Mrs.
| Hugonin, 81 did not know you were
serious or should not have taken this
| as joke"
Il am entirely serious"
"Really?" said Mrs. Hugonin, and
she spoke with some irritation. Il
thought all had been forgotten and for
| given years ago" Then she drew her
| self up proudly. "Can it be that after
| all this time you have conceived the
| childish whim of forcing me to a-to
an Apology"
"No-hardly that"
81 am ready to make it," she went
pn. "But if l do
| Kinnaird moved to the window be-
| side her and laid hand on her arm.
"You are much mistaken" he said, in
the undisturbed voice which so pro-
voked her. you must indeed think
that am taking leave of my years.
never had much vanity, l think, but
what had when was younger l new
er made a pet of. Look over there at
the rocks, and what do you see?"
"Rocks and moonlight. But, Ar
thur
'The rocks make me reeollect," he
| went on, unheeding, that one day
when you were about seventeen you
and | climbed Lone mountain together.
And when we reached the ravine you
insisted Oh going first and let you.
| Now, did that because 1 reflected that
If you fell could catch you"
"Well?'
"You see, that was my first mistake.
should have gone first and made you
cling to my-pardon me-coattails."
Every likely" said Mrs. Hugonin.
half laughing. But l can't think it
does us any good to talk it over now"
"After that" said Kinnaird, pursu
ing his subject, Il acted consistently
on the same mistaken theory. And
| when it .ame to the question of giving
! you up [ thought always of you first.
| That was why | gave you up-which
you naturally considered "A weakness"
| 1t did not escape Mrs. Hugonin that
a dormant weakness of her own was
reviying under the continued stress Of
this absurd conversation. a weakness
| for sentiment. But il was checked by
her veXation with her friend for break
ing their tacit understanding. and by
The feeling of half contemptuoUs pity
that stole over her as he spoke.
| Were she a man, she thought, she
would never confess at forty to the in
competence of twenty-five. That Kin
naird did so. but absolved her again.
Also, she reflected, she had had a head
ache yesterday, and therefore it was
very lucky this conversation had not
been started yesterday or she would
have been much more provoked than