Evening star., 1912-07-21

me to go out with her usual.
But don't YOU see how il Is snowineo"
I exclaimed Don't pretend anything so
absurd as that YOU have to shop this
morning.
II have ordered a carriage" she said.
so / think we may venture. AT least l
am going
From her light manner. supposed that
her errand was one of commonplace
frivolity, and l felt a-sharp sense OF dis
may when we turned into Madison ave-
nue. and stopped at her physicians. My
friend had come. l found. by appointment,
yet the doctor seemed greatly disturbed
that she should have gone out in the
storm. They had a long talk in his office,
so long that / felt fresh alarm for the
seriousness of the case. and | was not
surprised when the doctor seized an OPP
portunity to speak with me alone mo-
ment and to tell me. autiloritatively. that
should see that Miss Larcher left New
York. He had told her. weeks ago. that
the only. chance for her health, for her
life. even. lay in going TO a different eli
mate.
Are there no members of her family"
he demanded. who would be able TO per-
suade her? / have tried to frighten her.
and she refuses to understand
Il think she has none. ] lied. promptly.
But / will do what / can
Yet 1t was we'll known to lae that Con-
stance Larcher and her only brother were
devoted friends and in most matters close
counselors, SO that to save her / need
only to send him a word of warning. Was
not this my obvious duty? Why could
not bring myself to do it-by telegraph,
even-without delay?
All day the thought tortured me. yet 1
remained perversely inert. In the even
ing 1t SO came about that she spoke of
her brother, spoke of him so intimately
that 7 dared to ask her what his advice
had been in regard to her illness.
'Oh. John doesn't know I've been doc
torfng myself" she said. easily. II should
be ashamed to have him know. he's been
bothered SO much with me. The poor man
thinks I'm quite well-as ! shall be-
l was left. then. with what appeared TO
be the sole responsibility for the woInans
life. I. and alone. could have saved
her And I did not.
::
But cruel and foolish though I may
have been. could not then, and could not
even now, take her joy from her; break
her crystal cup and spill the warm red
wine of life that filed it. After much
weary thinking I had come to understand
have had the courage that was lacking
Had she been girl. there would have
been time for "A long healing. and she
could ultimately have opened her heart
to another happiness. But 10 tear Con-
stance Larcher from the sight Of Sidney
Fennell would be like thrusting her in the
tomb. Life could hold no reparation for
her
And yet the situation that gave her
such agitation and delight was in its
very nature evaneScent. 1t was not like
ly that she would not come to see less
of Sidney or more Of him. 1t seemed to
me that she must lose him-or gain him.
And Sidney could never care. Bright,
gay. lovable creature that he was he
seemed to remember no woman longer
than a day; the airiest dallier with the
| emotions, ] thought him. And as for
poor Constance Larcher, living on her
secret. tormenting love for him, she
seemed to mean no more to him than,
for instance. insignificant Adela South
mayd.
There was the certainty. too. that any
one else-that Dick. had l dreamed of
telling him-would have questioned pref
ty sharply my presentation of the case
Constance Larcher had never told me
that she cared for Sidney. How could
put SO much faith in my romantic imag-
inings. stake so much on them. stern in
terrogators might Well have asked me
even to the risking of woman's life.
Yet this did not shake my own convic-
tion that l knew. or alter my feeling that
1T would be a complicated treachery to
ever else, when she had not wished that
even / should know. There was. for my
watchful eye. evidence enough. There
were the five days when we did not know
illness having called him home too sud-
denly to permit his telling US of his de-
parture. She bravely filled the time With
laughter and frivolity. but ], who was
near her, knew the fear that chilled her
and the anguish that burned. And there
was her affected carelessness of interest
in all the little things / knew of him and
was glad to tell her. for although poor
Constance did not know it, we came TO
talk of Sidney almost all the time. She
must have supposed that my introduc-
tions Of his name. of anecdotes about
him were inadvertent-if she had known
with what laborious Indifference / drag
ged them in, bic to resist the look of
content, of assuagement. that they gave
her.
| But the thing that determined me at
last to take my sudden, momentous step
was not the spectacle of Constance Lar
cher's love. shining always more and
more wildly through her convention
ality's light. lustrous shell: but the Fate
full sentence that the doctor had let drop.
when, tortured by my fears for her. |
| had gone alone to see him. It's of no
use for me to suggest anything further"
he had told me inpatiently. almost an
grily. Nothing can help her now. She
has neglected herself too long,.
x i
| The horror with which this smote me,
| and the almost intoieraEle sense of guilt
that it aroused, seemed to give ME the
I energy to do something decisive at last.
/; SO I sefst that very night for Sidney.
He came in. looking so young and serene
| and trGstful that | could have weDt for
/ him. But / could not spare him. Or SO
bclieved--for ! had not given myself
+, time to think it over. | made him sit
by me so that l could look straight into
his eyeS-and / told him everything. |
put the case to him a hardly and square
| IL as though the poor wo:nan's infatua-
| tion logically imposed some obligation
! upon him. as though she were the first
,, woman who had loved him vainly; as
| though there were not. to my own hnoWl-
edge, a score Of others. And then, with
all the fervor that was in me. l begged
him to take pity on her.
He waited. silently. until at last ! had
finished: then he asked me if l were en-
tirely sure.
II can swear it to you.'' I said. She
/ is dying. and she loves YOU unspea "a bly,.
Dear boy, you have your whole life. apart
| from this. to do what You like with. After
ALL it isn't so mucn for you to do, and 1t
| Involves such a beautiful thing. You re-
member our saying that she was made
| for happiness: Oh, give it to her, Sidney.
before she dies.
| What l had said seemed to have sunk
i to an unErobed depth in him. He looked
old and strange as he sat there, his head
| turned to me: Il believe you care very
| hon 4 hi he