Wausau pilot. [volume] (Wausau, Wis.) 1896-1940, 1908-09-15


perceived that she, WIZ used to sit erect
as dart, in the most uncompromising at
tlrude, was now propped up with cush-
ions, against which her wasted figure
leaned heavily.
How have you got through the winter,
aunt?' Mildred asked presently.
Not very well. 1t has tried me more
chan any other winter l can remember.
1t has been long weary winter. l have
been obliged to give up the greater part
or my district work. | held on as long
as ever | could, till my strength failed
me- And now have to trust the work to
others. have my lieutenants-Emily
Newton and her sister-who work for me.
You remember them. perhaps. Earnest
good girls. They keep me en- rapport
with my poor people; but it is not like
personal intercourse. begin to feel
what it is to be useless-to cumber the
ground"
My dear aunt, how can you talk so?
Your life has been so full of usefulness
that you may we'll afford to take rest now
that your health is not quite so good
as it has been. Even in your drawing
room here you are doing good. 1t is only
right that young people should carry out
your instructions and work for you.
have heard, too. of your munifcent gift to
St. Edmund's."
1T is nothing my dear. When all
is counted, it is nothing. l have tried
to lead a righteous life. 1 have tried
to do good, but now sitting alone by
IL H. forht Of Iohr
it all seems vain and empty. There is no
comfort in the thought of it all, Mildred.
| have had the praise of men, but never
the approval of my own conscience"
There was a brief silence, Mildred feel
ing it vain to argue against her aunt's
tone of self-upbraiding, unable to fathom
the mind which prompted the words.
''Then you are not going back to your
husband" Miss Fausset asked abruptly,
as if in utter forgetfulness of all that had
been said and then suddenly recollecting
herself, you have made up your mind,
you say. WE'LL in that case you can stay
with me-make this your home. You may
take up my work, perhaps-by and by"
II will stay with you as long as you
will have me, aunt" she said gently.
AIDreCQL IS DelOW. May L SeHu 10
station for my luggage"
"Of course, anu your rooms shall be
got ready Immediately. The house will
be yours before very long, perhaps. 1t
would be strange if you could not make it
your home ~
She touched a spring in her book table,
which communicated with the electric bell,
and Franz appeared promptly.
Tell them to get Mrs. Greswold's cid
rooms ready at once, and send Albrecht
to the station for the luggage" ordered
Miss Fausset, with something of her old
decisiveness. Louisa is with you, | sup
pose?" she added to her niece.
Louisa is at the station, looking after
He has been a good servant and 1 think
he has had an easy place. 1 have not
been an eager traveller"
mo; you seem to have taken life at
slow pace. What took you to Nice? 1t
is not a place | should have chosen if
wanted quiet"
Mildred hesitated for some moments
before she replied to this question.
You know one part of my sorrow,
aunt, and | think l might trust you with
the whole of that sad story. l went to
Nice because it was the place where my
husband lived with his first wife-where
my unhappy sister died"
''She died at <ce?" repeated Miss
Fausset, with an distracted air, as if her
power of attention, which had revived for
a little just now, were beginning to flag.
''She died there, under the saddest cir
cumstances. ! am heart-broken when |
think of her and that sad fate. Ny own
dear Fay, how hard that your loving
heart should be an instrument of self
torture! She was jealous of her husband
-causelessly, unreasonably jealous-and
she killed herself in a paroxysm of de-
spair."
The awfulness of this fact reused Miss
Fausset from her apathy She started
up from among her cushions, staring at
Mildred in mute horror, AMI her wasted
Lands trembled as they graspcd the arm
of her chair.
Surely, surely that can't be true ~
she faltered. 1T is too dreadful! Peo-
pie tell such lies-an accident, perhaps,
exaggerated into a suicide. An overdose
of an opiate."
mo, no; it was nothing like that.
There is no doubt. heard it from those
who knew. She flung herself over the
edge of the cliff; she was walking with
her husband-my husband. George Ores
wold-then George Ransome they were
walking together; they quarreled; he said
something that stung her to the quick,
and she threw herself over he cliff. 1t
tho wild Of
which an all-merciful God would not hold
her accountable. She was in very deli
cate health, nervous, hysterical, and she
fanced herself unloved. betrayed, perhaps.
All, aunt, think how hardly she had been
used-caSt off, disowned, sent out alone
into the worldly those who should have
loved and protected her. Poor, poor Fay !.
My mother sent her away from The Hook.
where she was so happy. My mothers
jealousy drove her out-a young girl, so
friendleSs, so lonely, so much in need of
love. 1t was my mothers doing; but my
father ought not to have allowed it. If
she was weak he was strong, and Fay
was his daughter. 1t was his duty to pro-
tect her against all the world. You know
how l loved my father; you know that
l reverence his memory but he played a
towards part when he sent Fay out of his
house to please my mother"
She was carried away by her passion
ate regret for that ill-used girl whose inn
age had never lost its hold upon her
heart.
Not word against your father, Mil
dred. He was a good man. He never
failed in affection or in duty. He acted
for the best according to his lights in rela
ton to that unhappy girl-unhappy-ill-
uSed-yes, yes, yes. He did his best.
Mildred. He must not be blamed. But it
is dreadful to think that she killed her
self
Had you heard nothing of her fate,
aunt? Ny father must have been told,
surely. There must have been some means
of communication. He must have kept
himself informed about her fate, although
she was banished. given over 10 the care
of strangers"
when your father died you looked