Democratic Sentinel, Volume 3, Number 3, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 February 1879 — THE YOUNG WIDOW. [ARTICLE]

THE YOUNG WIDOW.

“Is there uny danger?” “Any danger! Danger of what?” Mahlon is conscious of a breach of politeness in repeating her words rather sharply. This dainty little lady in silks and furbelows irritated him. To most men she would be a sunbeam, in that dingy doorway; to Mahlon she is a blot —something against nature. “Danger of contagion,” she explains. “Not if you keep out of the wav. You are safe here in the fresh air. If you nursed the patient—but that, I presume, is not your intention.” Delphine laughs. “I only came to see what is needed. You doctors are said to order impossibilities for the poor.” “Unfortunately, we find a cheap diet seldom nourishing,” said Mahlon, dryly. “Then I can help! I have some wine of fabulous age, which I would gladly give your patients. You must let me know their needs. And, Dr. Korr ” Delphine extends her hand—“if you would come to my house on Thursday evenings you would meet some pleasant people.” Mahlon shakes hands, thanking her for her offer, but purposely saying nothing of her invitation, which he has no idea of accepting. He does not watch her down the alley, but goes upstairs to his patient, thinking hardly of the distribution of the good things of life —for Delphine shows she gives merely of her superfluity. Delphine has her thoughts, also, as she slowly picks her way through the mud. “Will he come? It was an inspiration, that offer of wine. Will it bring him ? He certainly does not know how to receive a favor, and really I don’t care for his coming. Louis de Lille hinted, when I said I intended to have the new doctor at my house, that there were things even a pretty woman could not do. Yet I could., If I put on an ugly Sister-of-charity dress, and nursed patients, he would follow me like a dog. But then, I have no desire to catch a fever for a mere caprice.” Many Thursday evenings pass. “Where is the new doctor ?” asked Louis de Lille. Delphine only smiles. “He has not needed my wine; when he does, he will come,” she tells herself. She is right; just then she sees Mahlon in the doorway. A faint flush overspreads her face. She advances to welcome her guest. " Have you come for the wine? ” The sight of Delphine’s drawingroom makes him loth to ask for it. Could he require her to sell all and give to the poor? But the few bottles of wine, precious a while ago, seem now the mockery of an offering. “You must tell me of your patients,” says Delphine, promptly. “ But first let me introduce some friends.” Mahlon would have been incredulous had he been told he could talk so much common sense amidst the laughter and music at Mrs. Eliot’s, and even find opportunity to give his views on hospital wards. “ Then you put no faith in the beautiful, Dr. Kerr ?” says Mrs. Gordon, who is interested in the hospital just being built. “ Now, if you had Delphine’s taste to help you ” Mahlon glances coldly where she stands, the center of a gay young group. “ Delphine is liberal, and holds her own purse-strings. If there is one position perfect in this faulty life, it is hers.” “ Yet, to bring about this perfect state, there was a death to be witnessed,” he says, gravely. “Of course that was sad; but that Mr. Eliot was her father’s friend, the marriage made when she was very young. I don’t mean there was a shadow of unhappiness between them; only it was natural she should bear the old man’s death calmly.” “ And afterwards enjoy his money.” “ Why not? He wished it, for he left her all without one irritating or insulting proviso.” “If you allude to a second marriage, I should think common prudence would have, made him provide against it. Unless he wished another man to have his fortune,” added Mahlon, with a shrug. “But he knew Delphine was not a fool.” “You said she was not in love with her husband.” Mahlon avoids discussing Delphine’s intellectual status. “A man’s fallacy, that need we women have of being in love. Empty-headed girls agree with you. But Delphine’s head is well filled, after her own fashion.” “After rather a frivolous fashion,” Mahlon might have said, but for Delphine’s approach. Mahlon is soon among Delphine’s constant Thursday evening guests; running headlong into danger, every one predicts. Yet nothing could be less like his ideal of Adam’s helpmeet than this gay little woman. Mahlon hrs interested her in the hospital, however, the burden of which chiefly falls on him, no one else giving much concern to its completion. Delphine aids it liberally, and his poor patients, also; but for Delphine no one is anxious. A grave, literal man like Dr. Kerr is not one to in trap a bright, imaginative person like Delphine, who laughs at the idea of his being attentive, declaring that a woman must be ill unto death for that. A chance word overheard at her house reveals to Mahlon that people are coupling their names. Men less fastidious than he would have called it nonsense; he considers it wrong for a woman to have her name so mentioned, when he does not intend to marry her. He must silence the gossip by avoiding Delphine. JSve» trifles wear fa him the serious

aspect of right and wrong; so, though he is sorry, he will make his good-by tonight final, and part without any explanation. It is later; every one is leaving. “Wait a moment,” Delphine says. “I have news for your hospital” But he looks grave. “Old Mr. Gale promises £2OO for his subscription. I did my best to be charming, and he valued my effort .at just so much.” Another way for gossip to link their names I “I am sorry ” begins Mahlon, at last. "Oh, very well! If you dislike help “It is not that,” he answered, confused. “Only you dislike my help? ” “ For your sake. May Ibe frank? I 1 found it pleasant here; I never thcught j of doing you a wrong.” Delphine looks bewildered; then the i blood rushes into her face, gw, “Will you please explain wEat wrong you could possibly dp me? ” “It is certainly a wrong to allow any one to suppose I do net consider you in some measure sacred, set apart from other women.” “ I understand,” she interrupted, her I color dying out' “You mean as Mr. j Eliot’s widow.” i “ Yes; and I blame myself that our i friendship was misunderstood. I can | only promise not to intrude again.” Delphine gives a shrug of assumed indifference. “Of course, the less is all mine,” he says. “Of course. Very well. But, if we cannot be friends, at least your poor need not stiffer.” “ Thank you,” he says, “in the name of my sick. You will shake hands with me?” “ Why should I ? It is a mere form.” Yet she does not refuse when Mahlon holds out his hand; and, for an instant, wh le hers lies so passive in his grasp, he has an odd feeling that he may hold it or drop it as he pleases. He blushes a little at the conceit, and lets her go. “Good night! ” he says. “Good-by! ” Delphine turns away, busying herself in rearranging the flowers on the mantelpiece. Not until Mahlon shuts himself out of the drawing-room does he remember his hat is within there. These small absurdities will thrust themselves on us when we are acting the heroics. There is no help for it; he must go back. Delphine no longer stands before the mantel. Greatly relieved that she is gone, Mahlon steps softly to the table. Then he stops; there is a suspicious heap of silk and lace ©n the sofa. Resting? But just then, with a low, shivering sob, she sits up, pushing the hair from her flushed face; she sees Mahlon. Is she dreaming? One is never on one’s guard in dreams. Mahlon’s eye fell under her gaze. What has he seen in hers that he turns so pale ? “I thought you had gone,’’ she says, sharply. “Surely, with your ideas of strict propriety, you need not be reminded how late it is.” No answer; she goes on: “It was so tiresome to-night, a good cry is such a relief. Just what a cigar is to you men.” No answer still. “Is anything wrong? Any one ill, I mean? asks Delphine, growing frightened. “There is something wrong,” Mahlon says, slowly. “I was wrong when I said it was best for us to part. My love will be a better protection—” Delphine puts up her hand to check him. “Not to-night. To-morrow, if yon choose.”

As he walks home, Mahlon is conscious of the same old tingling through his veins which set his heart beating so when Delphine, in her bewilderment, looked at him. For the first time, he has acted from impulse; the sensation is pleasurable. As for Delphine, love comes to her later in life than to many women, and she yields herself to it the more readily. Every one calls Mahlon’s influence unbounded. She gives up cards and dancing because he dislikes them; she tucks away her novel under the sofa cushion to escape a lecture on solid reading. “Your home must have been very nice,” she says, once when Mahlon descants on the days of his youth. “But what did you do on a rainy day or a winter evening? When I was a girl we would wheel back the tables and chairs, and dance; or have a round game of cards; even a romp. I was one of six girls,” she adds, apologetically. “We were poor before I married, and not intellectual, though we managed to make as much out of the shreds of life as some do out of a whole pattern.” As she says this they have reached the hospital, where they are come to see the effect of one of her designs for the decoration of the front. Mahlon chose the hour when the workmen go to dinner, so that the two are alone. Delphine mounts one of the granite blocks strewing the ground, her dress sweeping over the rough mass, while she shades her eyes with her dainty parasol, criticising the skill of the stone-cutters. Mahlon is struck by the contrast she makes—this dot of bright color—to the somber gray building. Of both he is to be master. In the hospital he will carry tlie hope or despair to many a poor soul, the verdict of life or death. But this little woman at his side, will he fail to influence? Delphine is radiant. Though the scaffolding partly hides the cornices over the windows, enough is seen to delight her, and she is full of fresh designs. Mahlon suddenly leaves her side. “I do not like that scaffolding. It is horrible 1 How careless men are of their lives! ” “You do not want the first man killed outside of your hospital,” laughs Delphine. She sees the disapproval in his face, which one of her flippant speeches always brings. But she has not time to notice it. “ Surely, Mahlon, you are not going up that ladder? ” “ Not the slightest danger,” he calls back. “ The scaffolding is built to bear five men besides the cornices, so it will bear me. lam not one to run foolish risks.” Delphine breathes more freely when he stands on the scaffolding. The ladder was to her the real danger. “ Oh, how high you are above me! ” she calls out, half sorrowfully, half laughingly. “ Shall I ever reach you? ” And she holds up her hands in supplication. He looks down on the smiling, upturned face, the pretty gesture of humility ; then turns to inspect the scaffolding. And there a low, cracking sound—he is falling. Falling so slowly, he thinks, while he computes the number of feet below—recalls the closesttPewn blocks of granite remembers Delphine's laughing face, upturned. By one of those escapes giving one faith in guardian angels, Mahlon falls not on the granite, but on mother earth. She takes all power from him, even that of speech; though he is conscious, and sees Delphine bending over him Delphine, earnest * and quiet enough now. Did that same white face, with the awe in it, bend over old Mr, Eliot's death-bed J Even that thought conges

dreamily and painlessly. Then some one lifts him into unconsciousness black as the grave. Mahlon’s impression is that he has merely closed his eyes and opened them ; yet he is now indeed in a strange room, though his last recollection is of the hard ground, and the blue sky above. But here is Delphine bending over him the same white, earnest face. Yet she wears no colors brightening in the sunshine. But a soft, gray dress, on which his eyes like to rest. He lies pondering awhile, then asks, “Where am I?” “At my house.” There is something beseeching in her eyes. “ I could not nurse you so well elsewhere.” “ I have been ill how long? ” “ Ten days.” “And you have nursed me. It was a wonderful escape. Had the scaffolding fallen with the workmen, some must have been killed. But I shall get well now; you need not be much longer confined.” “Is this her reward?” Her face may ask the question; for he stretches out his hand feebly enough; and Delphine, laying hers in the open palm, bends her head on it to hide her tears. Mahlon’s recovery is slow, and he is ordered away for change. But it is not of the anticipated benefit he thinks; it is more of his return to Delphine and of the wedding-day following it, than of growing strong. Her face haunts him; that pale face, its beauty dimmed by anxiety, yet which has gained a hun-dred-fold in his eyes. It is this face he returns to; not that of the girl old Mr. Eliot married, nor of the woman who bought Mahlon’s first visit with a few bottles of wine. They are as unlike as his feelings the night he stood on the hearth-rug watching Delphine weeping, and the feverish impatience with which he stands in the same place now, waiting for her coming. Will she never come ? Then there is an ominous rustle of silk, a flutter of ribbons, and Delphine, the gay, saucy, bril iant Delphine of old, is before him. Ah, well, if the leopard cannot change his spots, neither can woman her nature! Delphine and Mahlon drift apart after their marriage; for Mahlon had learned to love the woman who nursed him, and he is jealous of the old Delphine who robs him of her, and whom he has given up in despair of improving. “I wonder if he makes much money, and what he does with it ? Spends it on his beloved hospital, perhaps. If he would buy me a ribbon—a ribbon? That he would not do—a bit of sackcloth I would wear for his sake. I would be ill just to see if I were as worth his trouble as his pauper patients.” Poor little Delphine laugh?, but she could cry much more easily, sitting there alone over the bright fire in her morning-room, her novel drooping idly from her hand. She puts it away rather hastily, as the door opens. “Is it you, Mahlon? Is it so late?” “It is early. I wish to see you particularly.” He is standing before the fire, looking at her. “You wished to speak to me?” she says, brightening; for any confidence has become a pleasure to her, anything hinting that she had some real part in his life. “But you look dreadfully tired, Mahlon; let me ring for some coffee.” When the servant brings it, Delphine sends him away, and herself carries Mahlon his cup; but he does not take it from her. “Have you read the papers this week, Delphine ?” “I! No; I seldom do.” She blushes, as for a fault. “Anything in them ?” “Has no one told you of Brewster’s failure ?” “Brewster!” her start doos not on danger the cup in her hand. “Have you lost by him, Mahlon - ?” “ You have, Delphine, and very heavily.” He intended to tell her guardedly, not to shock her. But he has lost his self-control; his hand trembles so that he cannot take the cup from her. “ Something is left of other stocks, Mahlon ?” “Nothing. I have been unpardonably careless. Your trust in me should have made me doubly watchful of your fortune.” He cannot look at her as he speaks. She pauses; then—“Do you care so very much, Mahlon ?” she asks. “ For your loss, my poor child.” “Only for me?” “I never touched a shilling of it,” Mahlon says, hastily, immediately regretting his words. ” %

“ I know. Will you mind very much having to take care of me, Mahlon ?” “ Mind it, Delphine! I think you have not been quite my wife, because I have not taken care of you. I should be glad to have you forced upon me. The whole blow falls on you, poor child, so used to all that money can buy.” Delphine turns to put the cup down. He sees a shiver run through her, as if the mere thought of povertv hurt her. His pretty Cinderella decked for the King’s bed, to shrink away in her tatters to her ash-heap! Are not these the shocks that make peevish, dissatisfied women? It is hard to fancy Delphine either, but— He is startled out of his moody thoughts by the gay, saucy face she turns on him. “ I must come to you for everything, and you’ll scold if the butcher’s bill is large, and forbid sweetmeats as expensive, just as papa used, when his daughters kept house by turns. You can t get rid of me by marrying me to a rich man. But lam sorry for the hospi'al, which I’ve been so jealous of.” Why?” asked Mahlon, rather absently. "Wnynotf wnen it iuun.au yuiu leisure. And nearly caused your death,” she ends, softly. Mahlon recalls the pale face bent him that day, the face he has mourned as lost. He is not sorry to miss it now. He can never find fault with the woman who takes all troubles lightly, so that he is spared to her, who inclines to bask in sunshine, rather than to mope in shadow. It is worth all old Mr. Eliot’s money, such a discovery. And Delphine always declares that the loss of her money was a great gain to her.