Evening public ledger. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1914-1942, 1922-04-18

band. That being 80, cannot do you
the great wrong Of marrying you. It
would not be either for your good or
for mine. And since cannot marry
you / feel that we must part. am
miserable when say this, but I see
that that In justice to you, as we'll as to
He could 70 no further. A wave Of
tenderness toward Bessie came over
him; He had visions of the girl re-.
ceiving and reading his letter. It
would be at night in her little bedroom,
perhaps-the room in which she burnt |
her candle to learn her lessons.
No, 1t would be too cruel, too COW.
ardly. He would not write-he would |
go to Derby Haven and break the news
to the girl himself.
But that evoked other and more fear. |
ful visions. They would be walking
along the sandy path at Langacss with |
the stark white lighthouse at the end
Of It. Bessie" he would be saving.
I'VE must part; it will be better for
both of us. 1t has all been my fault. |
fou nave nothing to reproach yourself
with. But you must try to forget me, !
ana II there is anything else I can
90. W And then the reproaches.
the recriminations, the tears. the sun.
plications, the appeals: Don't throw
me over! You promised to stand up
for me, you know. I will be good"
1t would be terrible. It would make
MS heart bleed. Nevertheless he must
pear 1t. 1t was part of his punish.
ment. '""''"
He had torn up his letter and wss
putting his hand on the bel, ' ~ ordor To
the dog cart to be brought round 70 take
him to the railway station. when n serv.
ant came into the room and said:
Mr.. Alick Cell to see YOU. Sir"
uell came in with a gloomy and half.
shamefaced look. His tall figure was
Dent, his fair hair was disordered. and
his voice trembled as he said:
,Cant we take walk in the wood.
OLD fellow? I have comething to saw"
don't know how to tell you" he
oegan., They were crossing the lawn
n"Sa, toward the plantation. Its about
49, I m madly in love with her."
speaking into Cells twitching face.
Il knew you wouldn't be able to be-.
that" -'' '1"e
Tell me-" said Stowell.
ana then, stammering and trembling.
Iell told his story. He didn't now
how 1t began. Perhaps it was pity. He
had been sorry for the girl, over there
In that lonely place. so he went down
at first just to cheer her up. Then he
hao round himself going frequently,
eeuying her presents and taking her out
ior walks. When he had realized how
tn'ngs were he had tried to pull up, but
It was too late. He had struggled to
be loyal-to strengthen himself by
talking Of Stowell-praising him n tbs
girl, excusng him for not coming to see
her-,but 1t was useless. His pity had
developed into love, and before he had
known what he was doing Bessie was
In his arms. At the next instant he
had felt like n traitor. He was fran.
t;a!,. ttically happy and yet he wanted. to kill
1T was terrible" he said. II
couldn't sleep at night for thinking Of
It. Bessie wanted you to be told. In
TACT. she wrote you a letter, saying we
conidn help loving each other. and
asking asig you to release her. But |
couidn't let her 60 that far. Then 20
to Ballamoar and tell him yourself
she said. And at last I've come. And
now now you know"
Stowell listened In silence. His first
ieenng was one OF wounded pride, He
had really been a great fool about the
girl! what fathOmless depths of con.
break her heort 20 nA she Would
And then the long str,,,,fo ~ ho. mer up!
love and his dutv--whnt ,w pe,w.eh ms
Fate seemed TO have mado ~ isiIHunteoank
bis ncvt fooii, ,u ih"ue o1 MIN But
boundless. inexnressihi. unU Jill oi % relief
chain he hnd hoen ,ro ,n .vet' ne iron
had been broken. He Sos user MN
watchir, St,I, mS eerehthing hard, was
head. Thcv ru.reu wnre rai,; aTWn over his fore.
was thick with foIia., is ~ pain that