Democratic Sentinel, Volume 8, Number 28, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 August 1884 — PEACE ELLITHORPE. [ARTICLE]

PEACE ELLITHORPE.

BY LILY CURRY.

The sunset light, which had lingered on the r.ver by the boat bouse and upon the greenness of the shoie beyond, had deepened into tlie dull purple of twiligut; and now the moon, rising oTer the shadows of the bluffs, had flung a golden bridge across the wide, smooth waters. Mid-stream, one boat swung softly to the dip of oars and the song of the rowers, who were moved, perchance, with an impulse to round the completeness of the midsummer night. Peace Ellithorpe and Louis Gordon, standing in the shadow of the boathouse, listened intentiy for a time. “How sweet!” the girl said, presently. Gordon’s eyes were fixed upon her pure, pale face, with its halo of redgold hair, its long-lashed violet eyes. “ ‘ihe Soldier’s Farewell,’” he answered. “It s always beautiful.” His thoughts, nevertheless, might have been more of the beauty of her countenance—there, where the moonlight crept noon the darkness as a timid lady to ht r lord. And now he Lad stepped down into a boat, and was reaching up his hand to assist her. “All right?” he asked. And when she had answered half gayly, he pulled away from the landing out into the stillness and delight of the wate;s. “I am so glad to have you back,” he said, by and by. “It liasseenred ayear s.nce yon went.” “I am glad von missed me,” she responded. “Yet it was only a month.” “And passed ra; idly With you, no doubt, among scenes of gayety.” He spoke in a zealons tone. “I have not said so,” she answered. “There was much to occupy, much to amuse me; nothing to compensate for our separation.” There was no coquetry here. Not onee in all the six months of their engagement had she hesitated to speak the troth concerning her regard for him. “O, well,” he said, as if half-ashamed, “yon must expect one to be ill-natured when he lias to stay at home and let his sweetheart go thousands of miles away from him. But now you are back, you must tell me everything you saw, every place you visited.” “As if I had not already done so in my letters.” “In a general way. you did. I would like particulars.” “ Where shall I hegin? The Springs, or the country ? I spent two weeks at Saratoga, and one at the seaside, you know; then did a seven days’ penance at Brockton. O, such a dull place, Louis! Duller than Western towns of half its s ze. Not a thing to see, not a place to go, except—you’ll laugh when I tell you—except the State reformatory.”

She paused, for he had suddenly let go the oars. He bent again in a moment, and, taking firmer hold of them, begau to pull very hard against the .current. “What is the matter, Louis?” He answered breathlessly, after his -exertions. “Nothing. We—were getting too far ■down stream. Go on, Peace; you were saying that you visited the State reformatory." “Yes, it was very interesting. Were yon ever there?” Gordon laughed faintly. “Was I ever there? Oh, yes; I was there once. Well, how did it strike you?” “I don’t know what you are laughing at,” she said; “and I don’t believe you were there either, so I’ll tell you all about it, for ready I liked it very much —liked the idea, you know. In the first place, it is built upon a hill, and the entire grounds are surrounded with a high brick Wall.” . “In the shape of a square,” suggested Gordon, “with a sentry tower at each corner, and a watchman inside of each tower, with a loaded gun and instructions to shoot down any one caught trying to escape.” “Exactly,” said Peace, with some animation. “So you have been there, and you know all about the workshops, the clean corridors, the grades, and fchq night school. There is one illuminated text upon the chapel wall, which I think most beautiful: ‘ Look not unmercifully upon the past.’ ” Gordon repeated it after her, with a sigh. But it is impossible not to,” he said, wearily. “Impossible not to look unmercifully ? Why do you say that ? Why, nearly all the prisoners were boys, mere boys, placed the e for some trifling offense instead of being thrown into prison among old, hardened criminas.” “There isn’t much difference,” he said, moodily. “Once you deprive a man or boy of his lib rty. for any fault committed ” He broke off suddenly, and cried, “Pshaw! Why are you talking of snch things ?” But sire was not ready to abandon the subject. “You speak as if you did not believe in reformation.” * “Do von he asked quietly. “To be sure I do, and most effectual. ” -Wart a little,” said Gordon. “You eonldn’t think as much as any one who bad been an inmate of such an

institution, e en for the shortest time, as you could of one who had never broken the law in any way, could you?” “That would depend entirely on his after-conduct,” she answered promptly. “If he we e disposed to do right in every respect, no look or word of mine should recall the past ” “I would like o see you put to the test in this,” he said, incredulously. “1 would like to be. I would like to know some one who had broken the law aud made atonement, and who wanted to forget it all and live aright henceforward. I would like to be a stanch friend to such a one. ” Gordon began to row very hard again, and so was very unable to respond for some minutes. “I once had a friend,” he said, speaking very slow, “who was sent to that Bame reformatory—nearly eight years ago. He—he forged the name of a distant relative. ” “Tell me about it,” she said, with evident interest “I suppose he was young and didn’t realize.” “Yes; he was quite young. He was in the employ of this relative—a second cousin—aud had bsen perfectly honest and aithful until that moment. Even then, he had no interest in being dishonest, for he meant to restore the money within twenty-four hours. It was a mutter of pride aud extravagant companions, lie fully intended to restore the money, and only did it to get out of a boy’s scrape. But—it was discovered. His relative might have saved him, but did not. Alter all the the three years the boy had served him honestly, that consin—prosecuted him. * * * * The boy was i-ent to the institution you visited. Perhaps you remember tlie rules. He was perfect in behavior for six months, which put him on parole another haif year, and then gave him his freedom. He left the State immediately, aud nobody who knows him now, has the faintest suspicion of the secret he carries,—nobody but myself. Not even the young lady he is to marry.” “He has not told her?” cried Peace, in a startled voice. “Oh. how wrong! and how foolish! If she should Audit out by and by, how much worse than if he himself had told her. Indeed, he ought to tell her, for she, if she loves him, will be the very one to sympathize and to help him forget it. Louis, you must urge him to tell her.” “I do not know about that.” "But you must, dear. Promise me, the next time you see him, to suggest it.” “I dare not, Peace. I might be the means of wrecking his happiness eternally. No, don't ask me. Let us talk of something else.” “But I cannot think of anything else until you have promised me.” “I will promise to ask him to think about it,” he said, reluctantly. “ \ ery well, dear. Because if she loves him, it will certainly make no difference iu her feelings for him. Let me see; you say ho was perfect in conduct. Then he was of the first grade, and wore gray. How distinctly I remember seeing them all at work. In the foundry building they were almost all third grade men, in red uniform, a lovely shade of red, too, a rich cardinal. I remember the light from the molten iron shining upon the workers, and making the color they wore even handsomer. Well, well, Louis, you are not vexed with me, are you ? ” “Vexed!” “You seam so silent, dear.” He lot the oars rest, and leaning forward, drew her face close to his own. “I am so glad to bo with you again,” he whispered. “So glad! I have missed you so much!” The boat drifted as ho held her thus —drifted placidly. They could hear the other rowers singing sweetly once again: Soft and low, soft and low. Wind of the Western sea.

She leaned her head upon his shoulder. How near she was! How dear she was! He could hear her heart beat, and feel her pure breath upon his cheek. Her knotted hair had loosened, and the red-gold rings were shining in the moonlight upon hfer dark, plain dress. And still he held her closely, and they drifted. “Why do you sigh, Louis?” “If I should lose you,” he said, gloomily, “what would my life be worth?” “Do not think of such things. You will not lose me, dear.” “I must not, Peace. ” Again the refrain of the singers came swelling across the still waters: Wind of the Western sea. And again Gordon sighed. “You love me, don’t you, dear?” “What a strange tone for that question, Louis! A tone of doubt. Why, 1 could no more doubt you than doubt the stars in heaven!” “You—you have perfect confidence in me, dear?” “Perfect. ” “And you will always love me, come what may ?” “Always, Lonis.” “You—you want me to have no secrets from you, Peaoe ?” “None whatever.” “No, no," he said hastily, “and you are right, dearest.” They sat apart again, and he pulled steadily at the oars. “That friend of yours, Louis,” slie said, presently, “of whom you wore telling me. I suppose they put him at work of some sort?” Gordon answered slowly: “He kept hooks in the office. He was considered a good bookkeeper ” “That was not bad. Wonld you—would you mind telling me where’ he is now, aud what he is doing? You say he is to be married soon ? ’ “He is in this fitate,” said Gordon. “He has a good business, fair prospects, and is engaged toab autiful girl, whom he worships. He has been very happy of late.” It was her tu n now to sigh, not wearily, but as if his words gave her some vague s itisfaction. Happy her-, seif, she would fain have all'the world at peace. They were out a half hour longer—a half hour sweet with lovers’ whispered hopes and confidences! Then slowly he turned the boat, shoreward. The singers were repeating the “Sol-

dier’s Farewell” with more perfect harmony than before. i Good-night; farewell, my own true lore! _ The words came floating across, distinct and sweet, as Gordon steadied tbs boat and assisted his sweetheart to the lauding. They strolled off leisurely then along the sandy shore and on toward | the road. It was not yet late when they had reached her home, and they sat awhile in the broad porch. But Gordon seemed ill at ease, and this she was quick to discern. • “You have Borne worriment,* she said, softly. • “You think so?” His tone was evasive. “I am sure of it. Will you not tell me?” “It is nothing,” he said, breathi g hard for a moment. “Nothing—only you required a promise of me this evening, and I—l hardly know how to keep it. ” “ VV hat was that?” she asked, wonderingly. “ion asked me to urge my friend to —to acquaint the woman he loves with the fact that he has broken the law during his life.” He spoke constrainedly. “You think he would fear to do so?" “I know it,” he said, in a voice oi pain. “But,” she said, argumentatively, “I am sure I know women better than you do; and I am confident it would be the best thing possible. Besides, the woman who would allow it to make a difference would be unworthy of his love or friendship.” “You mean what you say?” he asked, rather breathlessly. “Of course I do.” “And you would not change, if—if you were she?” “I should only think the more of him for having trusted me.” Gordon was silent for a moment. Then he made a movement to put his hand in an inner pocket of his coat. “I—l have his picture here,” he said, with some effort. “I will show it to you.” He drew the small card portrait forth, and slowly reached it to her. Then he turned away his face aud was silent. “O,” she said, half laughing, “you have made a mistake, dear. You have given me yours instead of his.” Gordon had risen to his feet. She did not understand. Need he explain V It was not too late. Not too late. Need he go farther?—there was yet escape.

Be stood so without uttering a word. Perhaps it was but a moment’s space. Yet to him it Reemed an age. An age! Aud a struggle was going on in his heart. A terrible struggle. His brain whirled fairly, and strange lights danced before his eyes; He heard her last light words mocking him: “Yon have given me yours instead of his. You have made a mistake!” It was not too late. And some demon was tempting him. Suddenly the lights ceased to dance before his eyes; the roaring sound was quiet in his ears. He was himself once more, and calm as the dead. “I have made”—he faltered somewhat nevertheless. “I have made—no —mistake. I gave yon—his picture.” He dared not look at her. She gave a cry, as if he had struck and almost, stunned her. “You! You! O, Louis!” Her voice was faint and horror-sick-ened. “I knew it!” he cried. “I knew it. I —release you!” And, turning, he rushed away down the path and out at the gate. She watched him go; she did not recall him, bit stood silent in the moonlight ;• and the vine shadows crept slowly about her feet. “Heavens!” she said, shuddering. “How—how things come home to one, at times! How easy it is to talk! * * How he shocked me!” * * * She stood there still; she had not moved since he left her. The wind was sighing softly among the fragrant vines. The moonlight fras more beautiful than ever. After a iojjg time she stirred a little, and found that she was weeping without her own consent or knowledge. Weeping softly! and saying something over and over to herself with passionate delight : “ How brave he was! How brave he was!” And now she started, and, hurrying down to the gate, looked eagerly to see if he were not returning. Even she went out into the road, in the direction she knew he must have ‘gone. She went down the road to the first turn, and into the other street. Could she not find him? Was she to look always in vain? Must she wait until to-morrow ?

She turned to go back, and had reached the corner, when some one stood before her. “Peace!” It was his voice, husky with agination. “Louis! I have been looking everywhere tor yoiV’she cried, with infinite relief. “I thought—l was sure—you wouldn’t go without bidding me goodnight.” “And you—understand?” She laid both hands upon his shoul ders; she had recovered her serenity, and could look up tenderly w.th her soft eyes yet moist. “I understand,” she said, gently. “And now suppose w'e agree to forget all that. We have so much happiness to consider, present and future, we have no time for gloom.” He drew her face upon his breast; for the moment lie was weak as ever worn m. Perhaps she heai d him sob. “Mv darling!” he said, brokenly; “mv faithful darl ng!”

“Chari,E' ,” said mamma, “you have been a v ry naughty boy; you have been play ng marbles; ancl you know 1 told that von must i’t, for it is gambung, and gambling is verv wick d. Nov I hope you will never gamble again.” C iarley prom sed that ho wouldn’t, and his mamma w s so delighted that she took him to the parish fair and gave lnm money to take chances in a: most everything there. —Bos on Transcript.