Eagle River review. [volume] (Eagle River, Wis.) 1890-1927, 1905-05-12
CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIII.
And as for her; she was stunned al
most into Inconsistencies by this shock
of establishment and distress. She lay
on the sofa, her face covered with her
hands; she could not face the light.
What was she, then?-she who hitherto
had been so fearless and SO proud.
firt, jilt, light-o' love-that was how
she saw herself; and then there was a
kind of despair over the misery she had
wrought, and yearning to have him
back to implore his pity and his forgive
ness; and then sudden resolves to free
herself in another direction, at any cost
of penitence and humiliation. She began
TO compose hurried brief messages, though
the throbbing brain and the shame-strick-
en- soul could scarce decide between the
fitness of them. These were some of
them:
Dear Papa-I have gone away. Tell
Archie not to think any more about me.
'YOLANDE."
And then again:
Dear Archie-I send you back the
engagement ring; I am not worthy to be
your wife. l am sorry if l have caused
you any disappointment, but you have
less to regret than l have"
And then again-to one not named
at all:
''To-day I go away. Never think of
me again, or of what has happened. For
give me; that is ALL"
And then she began to think-if this
wild torture of suggestions could be call
ed thinking-of the undertaking that lay
before her, and the thought of it was
something of relief. There would be
an occupation. urgent, continuous, de-
handing all her attention; in time, and in
measure, she might school herself to
forget. Perhaps, if this duty turned out
to be a very sad and painful one, it
might be taken by those whom she had
wronged as a sort of penance. She was
prepared to suffer- She thought she de-
served to suffer. Had she not proved a
traitor to the man whom she had prom
ised to marry? Had she not brought
misery to this best and dearest of all
her friends, to this fine and noble nature
that she had learned to know, and that
by her idleness and carelessness-th
carelessness of a vain coquette, needless
of consequences? What would he think
of her? She could only vaguely recall
the reproaches he had heaped upon him
self; but she knew that he was in dis
tress, and that she was the cause of it.
And perhaps if there were trials i'll
store for her, if there was suffering i'll
store for her, perhaps he would never
know that she rather welcomed that,
and was content to. receive her punish
ment? Perhaps he would never know
how grieved she was. 1t was over and
done. and past recall. And she knew
that henceforth ner life would be quite
different to her.
Mr.. Winterbourne and John Short
lands were on their way back from the
hill.
81 scarcely know what has happened
to-day" Mr.. Winterbourne was saying.
"All the time 1 have been thinking of
our going back. And l know what l
shall find when l go back-the wreck
of the happiness that | have so carefully
nursed all through these years. 1t is like
hedging round garden, and growing
flowers there, and all at once, some
morning, you find the place trampled
down and a wilderness. l hope | am not
unjust, Shortlands, but l think he might
have spared her."
"Who?'
young Leslie. I think he might have
spared her. 1t was not much Don't
you think-out of consideration"
Nonsense, man. What Young Les
lie has done seems to me on reflection,
perfectly just, and right, and reasona-
ble," said John Shortlands, telling a lie
in the calmest manner possible. THE
young couple ought not to be hampered
in starting life. A little trouble now
what is that? And it will be better for
you too, Winterbourne. You would have
kept on worrying yourself. You would
have been always apprehensive about
something. You would have reproached
yourself for not telling him."
When they reached the lodge, Yolande
was not. as usual, standing in the porch
TO welcome them home from the hill.
"Please, SIR" said the maid, Miss
Winterbourne has headache. and says
would you excuse her coming down to
dinner"
He stood irresolute for a second or
two, obviously greatly disturbed, then he
slowly and thoughtfully went up the
stairs, and gently knocked at the door
of her room.
MAY l come in, Yolande?'
She had just time to unite the wet
towel from her head, to smooth her hair,
and sit up in bed.
Yes, papa"
He entered, went over and drew
chair near to her, and sat down.
Il am sorry for you, 1olande, he
said, in low voice, and his eyes were
nervously bent on the ground.
''Why, papa?"
She spoke in quite cheerful way; and
as he had not suffered his eyes to meet
hers, he was unaware how that cheerful
ness was belied by the strange express
sion in them. She was forcing herself
to make light of this matter; she would
not have him troubled. And perhaps, in
deed, to her this was in truth light
matter, as compared with that tragic dis
closure and its consequences, which