The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1909-12-27
The EVENING Story
Marion's Two Letters.
1R Edith crawl

/ 10y EolIQ vi
Marion Westbrook sat in the great
living room OF the old westbrook coun-
try home. her hands lying idly in her
lap. her brow knit in strange abstrac-
ton OF thought.
1 After all. she wondered. had she been
Justified In writing as she had to For
est Newbury and young Robert Thorn
ton? She recalled the wording Of the
two letters. Each line was strangely
vivid, even though she had hurriedly
scratched or the notes few days be-
fore. fearful lest. in pausing for caro-
ful composition. she lose courage and
fall altogether In taking this important
step.
In Forests note she recalled the old
days they had spent together In the
little village where his father had Of
flciaaed in the quaint. ivy-grown church
| OF st. Vincent. and where his grand
father had preached before him. She
spoke Of the long summer days spent in
| gathering flowers and playing tennis on
the Westbrook courts. and Of the au-
tumn evening condolences before the
very fireplace into which she was now
| gazing SO intently. She ended the note
briefly:
| You asked me many times during
those days one question. You recall
It? I never wished to marry. I was
| selfish, perhaps. am still selfish. Last
| night, when DR.. Morley told me that
the illness against which I have been
| fighting SO desperately had at last
| reached its crisis and that the change
was for the worse. I decided that I
| could no longer live in hopeless, bitter
loneliness. If you still want me, I will
| marry you"
4
| but equally to the point. She had met
| Robert Thornton on a western trip
| the previous summer, and 1t was with
peculiar forebodings and many inward
| promptings that she had finally sum
moned courage to send him the simple
| little note:
my Dear Mr.. Thornton" it ran. II
| remember that we were standing at
| the top of Mount Winslow and the wind
| was keen and sweet against our faces,
when you asked me that question for
! the first and, perhaps (who knowsO
| the last time. You said then IF ever
you are tired, If ever you are lonely.
| you have only to summon me. I will
| come I am no longer that active
free-limbed girl whom you used to
compliment on mountain climbing.
| am hopeless, helpless Invalid, but
| am summoning you.
Marian Westbrook knew that both
notes had reached their destination
some thirty-six hours ago, and that IL
they had been received and promptly
| answered, she might expect the replies
by the evening mail. What would be
the result of her impetuous daring?
OF Forrest Newbury's answer she
| was reasonably certain. He was
frail young clergyman and had al
! ways, in spite of frequent advances on
the part of many moonstruck damsels
| of the city parish, held aloof. cherish
! ing, as he frequently wrote her, one
glorious image in his heart. Marion
Westbrook, OF the old days, had been
inclined to treat the serious young
preacher as joke. Since her faith
er's death, and the recent illness that
| had cut her off from active life and
caused SO many of her old friends to
| fall away from her, she turned back,
with not a little tenderness, to the
thought of renewed intimacy with the
| old lover and friend.
| About Robert Thornton she was
not SO certain. His was of a more
robust care-free nature, unhampered
| by the visions and moods Of the tenn
peramental young parson. She won
dered if he still remembered her, and,
If he did, whether that memory held
anything of affection.
| Well, it was a game we'll worth the
playing. She had shown her hand
and now it was left to the ever rul-
ing Fates to decide the issue.
The great hall clock at the other
end of the room licked on monoton-
ously. The girl shook back the soft
| lace from her wrist ana searched the
table beside her for some paper or
book with which to distract her
thoughts. She picked up a volume
or poems but threw it aside.
The clock struck slowly. Marian
counted the eight strokes with breath
less intensity. Then. she heard the
door bell ring, and tried to settle her.
self com posedly as the white-capped
maid entered the room
"One letter, Miss Marian. Can
do anything for your"
Marian managed to smile upon the
little maid. as she shook her head
mo. Marie. I am quite comfort
able The letter was lying on the
table now within reach but she was
afraid to glance toward 1t. knowing
that the handwriting would at once
Very WELL" said Marian.
AS the maid left the room. Marian
clutche6 the letter with an odd little
cry. 1t was from Forrest. dear old
friend; She could always depend
upon him' She tore open the seal.
She turned page after page in
feverish haste. At the end she bowed
her head in her hands and though
harsh. choking sobs forced their way
The letter was kind enough. but SELF.
r cent Ne, and egotistieal IN tone. For
everything He would always io ern'f her
but he cherished her rather as a vision
2, dream to be satisfied in the hereafter
than as a woman made for the brutal
cares of life. He was very Door and his
parish was growing. Tfe was bitterly
sorry to hear OF her Ill health He would
run down to see her as soon as possible
There must, of necessity be some delay
as his people REQUIRED so much of his
confessed to herself in spite Of ali his
tactful rhetoric, he did not want her. a
burdensome invalid upon his hands
| before hon nv
| a minute-she could not have told which,
nusing. It was the entrance of Marie that
finally reused her.
"a gentleman. Miss Marian. Shall I
| show him imp
Marian spoke istlessly. IF you please,
| Marie She remembered that DR. Morley
| had told her that as he was unusually
busy his assistant would make the Gus
tomary call that evening.
i She did not raise her head until fa <no