Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1906-09-29


chair where she had thrown herself at the
beginning of their conversation. The scent
Of the cinnamon roses was half cloying.
"But," she repeated, monotonously, Il
can't see vet why you did it!'
Stuart walked from the tinkling foun-
tain to the chair, looked down on Pris-
elias lovely head, with his white lips close
Shut strobe back to the fountain, then
paused again before her.
"And I can tell you again, Priscilla, only
that 1 don't know why 1 deceived you; not
malicfously, believe me. Ever since was
little chap l have loved the south with an
intense sort of feeling that I have never
tried to explain. I was only a youngster
when I began to call myself a southerner,
and" he smiled, cynically, II took a boy
ish pride in adopting the chivalrous man
ner of southern gentleman After you
came north to live, with your intense
southern loyalty, and 1 swore to win you,
1t was only too easy to carry on the de-
ception."
Priscilla watched him with her steady
gray eyes. She had the beauty of the
stately old garden where she sat; quaint,
old-time loneliness that belonged much
to the rows of hollyhocks and the privet
hedges as did the slender sun dial that
stood beside the mountain, though Priscilla,
like the harebell that grew close by, was
the embodiment of the ephemeral loneliness
of youth.
1t was useless to interpret it as the tint
ing of the sinking sun. A. slow flush was
creeping up her throat. She rose, drawing
herself to her slender height, her curled
red lips curving proudly.
of course you cannot think that L VIII
ever have the same trust for you again,
Stuart. All that is gone now. Nothing
could prove quite so conclusively as this
that you are not a southerner!'
Wentworth's fine boyish face whitened
still more. What shall we do, Prisclla?''
he asked; what shall We do?'
The troubled, broken voice and the con-
trite simplicity of the question were, per-
beautiful head set so nobly upon the
slender neck did not turn again in his d.
rection. She watched the prism lights in
the tinking fountain.
Il could more easily forgive your not
being southerner than l can the fact
that you have 2ersistently and deliberate
ly deceived me about it for SO long
Then silence, except for the silly yes
per thrush that tried to ease matters with
Its btter-sweet notes from the birch tree
and except for the fountain that purled
and whispered of the useessness of it.
And so,'' with a little culver of the
soft throat and of the curled lips, and so,
we will end it here
Still no word from Stuart, though Pris-
ella waited moment before she made her
way up the graveed path to the open door.
He stood quite motiOnlesS beside the sun
dial; slim, straight, young figure, with
fine eyes, stern and hurt. The palest yell
low of the fountain changed to orange the
orange to lavender, the lavender to purple,
which lost itself in the dusk. Then he turn
ed, and perhaps Priscilla heard the garden
gate latch behind him, but she made no
sign.
And SO the garden lay all night, whitened
IT'LL how, 1any,
den in the sonber black that comes just
before the dawn; then bridal gray in the
early daybreak. Far at one end OF the
village street. in the green-shuttered house
that looked out over the meadow, Stuart
sat all night, with his face pressed against
the window that gave toward the gabled
roof of the old manor house. He knew that
the fountain tinkled family for Priscila,s
ears. that she who had loved him with all
the depth of her proud little heart was also
sleepless through the long hours before the
coming day.
Stuart was very bitter over his folly,
vet even to himself he could give no ade-
auate explanation. He knew only that his
love for the south, that had been the one
sweet and lfe-giving fact Of his lonely
childhood, had come at last TO work MIN
harm: that the story which he, as hero,
had lived so long that years ago he had
come to believe 1t himself was only a
dream after all. The pictures or woe
stretches of cotton fields, of moss-hung i've
oaks OF the nutGu plildIS VI q AoS1'iehoAS
doorway, that had been part OF his boy
hood existence, were only pictures, ana
not memories. He did not try to )ustlfy
himself He only sat YEARLY with a dull
sense of failure that was only the more
noignant because of his youth. And the
dawn lifted upon lace III ""i anu ''0"o
Earlv in the morning Priscilla stood be-
fore the fountain. 1t was SO early mat the
cohwebs were still dew wet. and sagging
threads of web dropped from the style OF
the sun dial Dog days in the city, out al
the Manor early morning OF the early mar
vest season; dahlia rows ana oudolns as 8
meadows flush with golden rod and gentlan
Il can't bear it," whispered Priscilla 10
| the fountain. tits not fair to ask me
to bear it. 1t is the oniy tning i, NE eS on
and the red bird in the birch caro!led Out
| his heart. . H., nil,
IF | forgive him-if I forgive him-WiiI
| I ever trust him again?
"If On, I don't believe he meant harm
| I think he did it to please me. WISH
| that 1 might forgive him! IL aihlos'
| think 1 shall. .,, ~,
that, He ought to have known that a1tel
| 7 loved him l loved him, whether ne was
| bred north or south. 1t was insulting u
| me-" .,, :, +ht
The cowbells tinkled merrlly IN tn s
| meadows the voices of housemalds noateu
| from the kitchen. The garden gate cllckeo
| and with a great flush Priscilla turned. a
| dried little mulatta woman walked Slowly
| toward the fountain. AS she spied PRS
! ella her dark face broadened with cheef
| full grin. oon,t
II done 'spects youse the very one l come
| to see she said, breathlessly
| ..Yes?" asked Priscilla listlessly
| II was bound to bring good luck te
| Marse Stuart's bride. Good wishes lort
breakfas' of de third day befo de>Weddlng'
| you know" ao ,,o,
| Priscilla spoke quickly. What 90 you
know about Mr. Stuart?"
| The old woman rolled her eyes. KNOW
| WHY. amt de one at TUX him from M
| dead mother, and amt l de one al gu
| him to the lady that adopted MIN! An
| when 1 heard that Ill Mass stuart wa:
| gwine be married, didn't l come no Tn u
| be at his weddin?
| Oh. the birds in the blue, and the SO sol
| touch of the wind in her face! Prlscllla
| throat trembled again as she took the Ole
| woman's hands in her own. -
where was Mr.. Stuart born, NANNY!
| she asked. , .ho o,i
| woman, wonderingly. Don't you Know
| where yo' own man wuz born, honey!
| Priscilla shook her head He does no
| know. His adopted mother lost her mint
| when he was still baby, and. no one knew
anything about her or the boy. she II
| dead now"