The Monticellonian. [volume] (Monticello, Ark.) 1870-1920, 1918-04-26


must sell myself for gold if l marry at
ALL"
/ was glad when she finished abrupt
| ly and laid me down where l could
watch the streets pouring their Seeth-
ing masses of human beings, God
knows where do not. Back and
forth GIBBS this ceaseless tide, but from
what diversified sources it has come.
and to what it is going. l know not.
In few days he came in again, and
| wrote for him few words, pitt
fully brief message:
Il am going to the Philippines. You
have made it impossible that | should
live here, and care not whether l live
elsewhere or not. A worthless life Is
best offered up on the altar of my coun-
try's service, and mine will be only an
other name to add to the list of poor
devils already killed by pestilence or
the bullet of Tagalo."
There was nothing else, only his
name. 1t was quite time that | should
be replaced with new pen. had out
lived my usefulness-but l continued
to be overlooked and many a day and
night have | lain there quietly on the
desk by the window and thought of
that brave fellow, off there, fighting
where no glory could ever be his,
crawling through tropical underground
and searching out the treaeherous foe
to be finally wasted and killed by in
sidious disease-denied even the hon
or, doubtful, perhaps, of dying by the
hand OF the enemy.
1t was only the other day I know
the brilliant bloom had just burst from
the beds in front of my window, and
great crystal drops from the fountain
were blown by the madcap breezes of
the spring when my soldier came in
and stood near me. He had returned,
and there was a happy light in his
eye, flush beneath the rich bronze
tinting of his cheek. Evidently his
enlistment and service had done him
no harm.
He gave one quick glance across the
rainbow brightness that crossed and
recrossed the velvet greenness of the
turf outside, grasping me, his old
friend, he wrote hastily:
Dear Mabelle-I have come home
for good. My time is up, and | have
great news for you. for while out there.
fighting natives and sickness, and
dreaming of you-my fortune here was
being made. Something l had done in
the old ife-journalism-it seems at.
tracted the attention of the great ones
in power, where formerly | was almost
an unknown quantity. SO that | re-
turned to find the struggle ended and
a sure place waiting for me, at a sal
airy that seems marvellous, almost. At
least it will suffice for all of us, and
your dear ones shall never know want
while | live | have written this to
your old address and am not quite sure
where l shall find you. A line will
bring me to your side; and dear-let 1t
be soon, please"
Ny heart sang with his for joy and l
was glad that it WAS spring, glad the
grass was soft and green, the flowers
bright and the birds singing. For some
where, UP in the branches Of the great
elms, some birds were rfotously chant
ing a greeting to all things new and
beautiful.
The next day-yes, it was only the
next day-she came again, but how
changed More beautiful, if anything,
but something subtle had departed
from her personality and had been re-
placed by another something that l
could not define, but only feel. And
she, toe, lifted me and presently she
wrote:
Dear Jack-Dearer now, because
impossible by my own wickedness.
Your letter came to me last night, af-
ter following me about all day. l an
glad you have come back and that you
were not killed out there, as | was
afraid you would be. | have watched
the papers and my heart has ached j;
but Jack, dearest Jack, | have gone
and spoiled all the beautiful happiness
that life had in store for me-on the
eve of its appearance. Last month |
married-married for the gold | have
needed so mueh-and fer them5a man
| did not love, man who is old enough
to be my father-and who's not like
YOU, Jack. And in less than two weeks,
only two weeks ago-and 1t seems
lifetime to me-they We're both gone
gone. Jack, TO where they could never
want what | had sold my soul and
YOUR love for. Mother went suddenly.
Father just failed and then-he was
gone. They held out their hands to
me- he said to me, one day-and he
went to them. l have forged my chains,
beautiful letters they are, of solid gold
and iewelled-but they burn into my
flesh like fire. and they bind till, from
very agony, l must groan. Pity me,
Jack. If you are unhappy what must
I be? Oh, wait for me-wait for me
Jack. perhaps-he is older than I
and perhaps some time-Forgiva me,
Jack. and forget me.-Mabelle."
The fountain sparkled in tho Gun
light, the flowers held their cups to
catch its spray, great trees bent their
heads as the fleecy clouds rolled above
/ them, and only the song of the birds
was wholly happy.
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