Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1906-11-23

xxx.
The penetrating Florentine sunshine was
enveloping the villa that stood upon the hill
above San Domenico: but 1t was not the
full. warm sunshine of late April. that had
opened the roses In the gardens and deep
ened the shadows of the cypress-trees near
ly two years earlier, when Clodagh had
dreamed Of her visit to Venice. 1t was the
cool sunlight Of February. and 1t fell across
the polished floors. and threw into promi-
hence the many antique and curious objects
| that filled the rooms. with. a searching clear
ness that almost seemed like human
scrutiny.
In small salon that opened upon the
terrace Clodagh sat at bureau. In front
of her was formidable array of letters and
business papers, neatly bound into packets
by elastic bands. and under her mana was
spread sheet of unused, black-bordered
note-paper.
| Whether 1t was the multitude of her own
thoughts that retarded the task she had In
hand or certain air of absolute stiffness
that seemed to brood over the villa, one
could not say; but certain 1t Is that for
nearly half an hour she sat In an attitude
of abstraction. her fingers poised above the
note-paper the tip of her penholder held
against her lips.
At last, however, new idea seemed born
In her mind for she laid down the pen,
rose suddenly to her feet, and, moving
across the room. paused beside the window.
For long, silent space she stood at this
closed window, her gaze wandering over
the scene that custom had rendered ex.
traordinarily familiar-the hillside. cut
into characteristic tiers Of earth. until 1t
sloped downward almost like flight OF
steps. from which the gray olive-trees and
the black expresses rose sharply defined in
the brilliant atmosphere; at its foot Flor
ence, with its suggestion of dark-roofed
houses and clustering spires; and beyond
ALL encircling all, the low chain OF noun
<.f,, lee in, fh0 cIYr
quite suddenly, with a swift impulsive
| movement, she unfastened the latch and
threw the window open.
In the added radiance that poured into
the room she stood more distinctly revealed,
and the slight changes that even two years
can make became visible in her face and
figure. The pose Of her body and the car
riage of her head were precisely as they
had BEEN but her cheeks were little thin
ner, and some of her brilliant coloring was
gone; but the fact that would most speedily
have appealed to one who had not seen her
for the two years was the circumstance that
she wore deep mourning-a mourning that
lent an unfamiliar. almost a fragile, air to
her whole appearance. That would have
been the first impression; and then; as one
studied her more closely, 1T would have
been borne in upon one that these were
| mere outward signs-that the true, the real
alteration lay not in dress, not in the thin
ness of her face, not in the unwonted pallor
of her skim but in the very curious express
sion with which she gazed out over the dis
tant hills, the look of kinship. of compre-
hension. of that Elusive. subtle sentiment
that we call anticipation, with which her
eyes met the far-off skyline.
For many moments she stood as II fasci-
mated by the sense of promise that breathed
and vibrated in the spring air; then at
last, with a quickly taken breath. she
turned away from the open window, and.
recrossing the room. seated herself again
at the bureau, picked up her pen. and with
a new inspiration began to write.
Dear Cousin. l. the worst
spondent in all the world, am going to
write you long letter-because my heart
is so full Of thoughts that l must unburden
it to some one who will listen. Who better
than my friend-my brother-of the old,
dear, dear days?
TT was good of you and Aunt Fan to
tiers; and l needed them. For though there
was no horror in James death, death itself
is-and always must be-terr1Dle to me-
Terrible. but also very, very wonderful!
Wonderful beyond words, when one realizes
that somebody one has known as good and
kind and unselfish-but ordinary. Larry,
ordinary as ones self-is suddenly trans
| formed into something infinitely wise and
mysterious, with mystery we can only
think about and fear.
lone month ago James was in his usual
health, going about his little daily tasks,
losing himself in his little daily interests.
And now he understands the million things
that puzzle you and me and the rest of the
world of living people.
His death-as told you in my first short
note-was painless and quiet, and unself1sh.
| like his life. He held my hand and knew
me to the very end. and spoke to me quite
| lucidly of his affairs half an hour before
he died. And, Larry, think he was happy!
| You cannot imagine what 1t is to be able
| to say that! Death brings SO many regrets.
1t frightens me when look back now over
| the years and think of our marriage. 1t
was so terribly. cruelty unwise. A man of
his age, a girl Of mine! And, knowing what
know now, the first years must have been
very bitter for him. Since then things have
been better-and worse. Two years ago We
were perilously near disaster-he and /
| when something-it does not matter what
saved US both.
How sincerely thank God now that 1t
was SO. At the time suffered terribly; but
| 1t was good for me. 1t made me that
| duty Is not merely a negative thing. And
now it is all overall over, like .1re1m
| that is past. 1 as was l am free!
II seem heartless to say that. could
not say it to any one except you-or Nance.
| And l even wonder if Nance could quite
| understand. I feef that she must be so very
| much younger than myself. But you will not
misunderstood. Larry, Will you? You VIII
| see that it isn't want of heart. but just the
| knowledge that there is future A future
! for me, who had ceased to believe in one
Just before I began this letter l stood
for long time at an open window. looking
| out over Florence, lying below me in the
| wonderful sunshine that comes to Italy In
| the spring, and quite suddenly, Larry, I
|
May! 1t seemed to suggest a hundred thou
| sand things. Don't say am disioyal For
| of course, I want to go home to OrrfstoWn;
| but not just yet-not just yet. feel can
| not quite explain 1t to you-just little
| afraid Of going back to Ireland. Just at the
| moment it is too full Of memories. But l
| want to see England want to live In Eng
i land.
Eyes, I shall live in England-for the
| present at least. And you and Aunt Fan
must come and stay with me; and then you
| will report on your stewardship. For, OF
| course, you are still to manage Orristown-
| as we'll and capable as you have managed 1t
! during the last three years. I always think
1t was one of James kindest actions to me
| to give that management to you, though
shall always regret that you and Aunt Fan
! will not make use of that big empty house.
| But what is the good Of talking! The Assn
Inns are all disgustingly proud
II can see you smile as you read this. and
perhaps can hear you say, How like Clo!'
hope-oh, Larry, I hope / can!
Give them all my loye-Hannah. Burke ,e;
How I crave sometimes for just one long.
| wild gallop! She must be eight years old