Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 39, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 October 1885 — THERE’S DANGER IN DELAY. [ARTICLE]

THERE’S DANGER IN DELAY.

BY STELLA GARD.

The sun had never shone upon so fair a J une. The skies were never so blue, the flowers so sweet, the breezes so soft, the hours so rosy. So thought Lorraine Lorrimer. She lifted her eyes to her companion’s face at that moment, and met his looking down at her. The eyes into which she looked were ordinarily laughing and blue, but their expression was intensified just now. Dark and soft, there was an electrical fasination in their gaze that caused the warm blood to tingle in her cheeks and flush over her forehead. Her eyes drooped swiftly. He smiled, and passed his hand caressingly over the small brown one that lay on his arm. They were not lovers, these two; they were “only friends,” as Lorraine w ould have said, then. They were pacing with slow, lingering footsteps a long country road, which was shaded by arching trees that met and embraced far above their heads. The air was charged with the odor of honeysuckle, and vibrant with the song of a lark which had escaped the ■coniines of mortal vision, and was heating its little heart out somewhere beyond the curtained fringes of foliage, in the depths of ethereal blue through which the setting sun was pouring a glory of gold and red; hut these facts, though instinctively recognized as fragments of the general harmony, made no very distinct impression upon the consciousness of either of them. That dusty highway, with its tall enclosing hedges and its whispering leafy avenue, might have contained the whole sum of life, so little they desired or thought of anything beyond it. But life holds more than a succession of peaceful footsteps, even on a fair June day. A few steps more brought them to a stile, and it had to be crossed. “You are tired,” said Hie young man. “Sit on this stile and rest awhile. I will not let you fall.” He leaned on the stile beside her, and held her hands, until his eye was attracted by some flowers that grew luxuriantly in the hedge on the opposite side of the road. “I must get you some of that woodbine,” he said; “I like the pale-colored bloom better than that tinged -with red; it is sweeter. Do not move until I return.” She sat still and watched him. He came back soon, with a fragrant, creamhued cluster in his hands. “Do you like them ?” he said, smiling up at her, and caressing her cheek with the dainty blossoms. Between them they fastened them into the folds of her fichu. Lorraine tried first, but her hands trembled, and the flowers fell, and were scattered into her lap. He smiled as he gathered them up, and held them while she secured them. “Everything is better done when we do it together, Lorraine,” he said, as he again folded her hands in his. “Shall we come home?” he asked softly. “I am ready,” she said. “Yes, Lorraine, we must go,” he answered ; yet still he lingered, while the sweet, nameless odors of the summer twilight hovered about them, the red flush of the sunset fell over them like a benediction, and the warm air palpitated with the last thrilling notes of the weary warbler as he sank toward Ms nest. “Lorraine, you look happy.” “I feel happy. Everything is so beautiful to-night, ” replied the girl, dreamily* “Yes, everything; the trees, the birds, the sky, the sun, the flowers, and- you. Lorraine, I don’t want to go home.” He drew closer, and again his eyes sought hers, with the subtle, indefinable magnetism in their depths which caused the color to stir so uneasily in her cheek. “Rex, we must go home,” she said, : nervously. “Come, then; let me lift you down.” “No, Rex; please don’t,” she said, i startled. “Why not?” he whispered. And •lifting her in his arms he held her close . and kissed her. * * * * * Eight weeks later, Lorraine stood in

her bed-room, reading a letter from Rex. Slie was paler and thinner than she had been in June, and there was a heavy, wistful look in her large eyes which then had been strange to them. She read the letter through twice, and then she put it down, .it was a customary thing for Lorraine and Rex to correspond, but this was the first letter he had written since they had met in June. It was a long leitor. A large part of it was filled with a halfserious, half-jesting apology for the long silence. “Yon will see,” wrote Rex, “that my holiday has been exacting all my time. ” “ ‘My holiday has been exacting all my time!’ ” Lorraine’s lip curled with something like contempt, of herself and of Rex, too. “How great must Rex's regard for me be!” she said; and then the memoi’y of the June evening which now seemed so very far away rushed upon tier, and the tears fell over her face like rain. At Christmas she saw Rex again. He came and went in the same day. “Lorraine,” he whispered as he bade her good-bv—“Lorraine, do not forget me!” and he was gone; while she stood trembling, with liis kiss warm upon her lips. For awhile Lorraine was happy. No word had Rex spoken, but the language of lip, and hand, and eye was unmistakable. Every gesture, every glance, every intonation said to Lorraine’s heart, “You belong to me, and I belong to you.” And Lorraine’s heart responded. That was enough. But week after week went by; Easter came and passed; Lorraine had many letters, but the one so constantly looked for never came. Lorraine sought distraction in study. Far oftenor than not, her light burned late into the night. Foolish, was it? Yes, very foolish. Young and eager spirits are so apt to be foolish until life’s stern discipline has taught them how best to be wise. By June, Lorraine was very ill. During- the first days of her illness came the letter which had tarried so long. “I hear that you have been ill,” it said; “I am sorry for that. You have been working too hard. If life is short, there is no need to deprive. one’s friends of one’s presence any earlier than is absolutely necessary.” He was sorry that he had kept her letter waiting an answer so long; he was always sorry for that. He spoke pleasantly of an anticipated holiday in Madeira. Between friends of no extraordinary degree, the letter would have passed muster; from Rex to Lorraine, at the hour of Lorraine’s extremity, it was heartless. Lorraine crushed it under her pillow, and turned her face to the wall. She knew the truth at last. It was not so much the loss of Rex that she grieved over. She could have borne that. She would have thought scorn of a love that placed its own happiness before that of its object. It was the loss of her faith that she mourned; the loss of her faith in Rex; and through him of her faith in all things human. She almost lost her faith m God. Ay, she did lose it for awhile. She groped in the darkness that shrouded her for a hand to hold by, and she found none. It was a bitter time for Lorraine.

And, meanwhile, what of Rex? He meant no harm. He had the best of intentions. He was hot wicked; onlyweak. The idol and darling of half the women he knew, perhaps he was a little careless of the mischief worked by his beautiful face, his bewildering smile, and rare charm of manner. Easy, luxurious, self-appreciative, it suited him to be worshiped by women. He liked change; it was a necessity of his nature. Change of scene, change of friends—these things eased life of its monotony. It pleased him to see fair faces flush and fair eyes droop at his eloquent glances and exquisitely modulated words—such study of human nature interested him. He possessed the faculty of attaching himself to people easily; but the large, long-suffering, high-souled love of a heart such as Lorraine’s was beyond his comprehension. When he was with Lorraine he was honestly “in love” with her—for the time. When he left her, his passion cooled. In his normal condition of mind, such an idea as that of allowing himself to be entirely appropriated by one woman seemed preposterous. Ten years later, Rex and Lorraine met again. It was again June; Rex was waiting for Lorraine in her own summer parlor. It was a pretty room —made beautiful by all the graces which a woman of refined nature and delicate tastes gathers about her instinctively. The years had brought Lorraine their success. The seed sown in sorrow and tears so long ago had brought forth an abundant harvest—as the world counts abundance. Lorraine had waked one morning to find herself famous; the finger of material want could never touch her while she had power to use her pen. To Rex, as he paced restlessly backward and forward in the pretty room, it seemed a loug time that he waited. At last lie heard a light, slow step, and the rustle of a woman’s dress. The quiver that ran through his strong frame told him that Lorraine was coming. The man’s very hands trembled. Half-way across the room she stoplied. He rose; and they stood and looked at each other. She held out her hand. Rex bent low over it, and touched it reverently with his lips. For a little they talked of old times, and of old friends whom they both had known. Then Rex said: “Lorraine, I have come with the hope that it is not yet too late for us to

live the old davs over again.” She read his meaning in his eyes. “Lorraine, we u ed to be happy together; let use be happy again. You think I have been long in coming; but tell me it is not too late. Let me claim what is mine—mine bv the right of love.” He stopped ner .ously. She looked so pale, so cold, as she sat there. But she did not speak. “Lorraine,” he continued, gathering courage from her silence, “you love your work, but it does not satisfy you. You are contented, but you are not happy. Your face tells me that. Do not refuse my love; be my wife; my life shall be spent in the care of yours. ; For the sake of our old friendship give me what I ask, Lorraine.” The words were warmly,passionately spoken, but they made no imjiression upon Lorraine’s marble calm. I "I am sorry you spoke of this, Rex,” j she said; “I have chosen my path in life, and chosen it deliberately; it is too late to change it now.” “Do you fear that I should not give you sympathy in your work ? Lorraine, my greatest, my most constant sym- | pathy shall be always witli you in this ! thing, as in all others. Ah, Lorraine! ; you used not to be so bard to move in j the old days. ” “Your sympathy would have been life to me then,” she said; “now I have learned to live without it. ” Rex’s forehead flushed, “Perhaps I have deserved this; I have deserved it; but you cannot think that I should not have come to you all the same now had I found you in different circumstances ? Lorraine! I wish I had. You would not have misjudged me then.” “No,” she said slowly, “I do not believe that. I never have thought that you intended to do me injustice, except perhaps at first. I have seen how it was for a long time now. You could not make up your mind, Rex. You disturbed our friendship—the friendship we were happy in—without being sure that you wished for anything more than friendship.” “And will you always bear me a grudge for that, Lorraine ? Can one interest so fill your life that you need no other ? The care and protection of husband and friend, the love of little children—are these things nothing to you? Lorraine, was your life meant to be so cold and loveless ?” Rex’s voice bad lost nothing of its old winning sweetness and persuasive power. A close observer might have seen an increase in Lorraine’s pallor, and her fingers closed round the arm of her chair with painful intensity. “I find no fault with my life; let that suffice for us both,” she said. “It is as useful a one as I ever have hoped to make it; more so; and I am perfectly happy in my work.” “I do not doubt that you are happy in your work. Heaven knows Ido not overestimate my own power to make you happy. But, Lorraine, it is a poor life, after all, that lives only for itself, and to itself, even in the noble way that yours is lived. If you allow other lives to starve for what you have it in your power to bestow, your life, live it liow you will, is still a wasted one.” “Is my life a wasted one?” she said, slowly; “I do not think it is.” “In one sense it is wasted, if not in another. Yours is a life of intellect merely; you live no life of heart; it is the union of the two that makes life complete Were hearts given us to be steeled to affection, Lorraine ?”

“You mistake,” Rex, she said gently; “there are other affections besides this one you speak of, and my life does not want these. But, in justice to you, let me tell you that ten years ago I lost a friend, ‘only a friend,’ that was dearer to me than anything on earth can ever be again. He is dead.” “A friend! And he is dead! Lorraine, will you permit the specter of a dead friend to come between you and my living love?” he said impetuously. “Hush!” she said. “You can have no conception of what his friendship was to me. No man’s living love could requite me for the memory of it. It is my most precious possession.” He was silent for a moment, almost awed by her tone, and her pale, lofty look. Then the sense of what he had lost rushed over him, and half maddened him. “Friendship!” he cried; “you are trifling with me. Tell me the truth, Lorraine; I demand it as my right that I should know; are you wasting your own life and spoiling mine over a fond and foolish fancy, or did you love this man, your friend?” The color rose into her fair, pale cheek, but she gazed at him with steady eyes. “It may be so; I cannot tell; it is not necessary that I should analyze ray feeling. It is enough that no earthly thing can ever come between me and that most sacred memory.” “Ah, Lorraine!” he said, sadly; “if I had died ten years ago you would have said that of me. Now you will allow a shadow to spoil our lives. Have you no little love for me left?” “Hush! Rex; is it I who have spoiled our lives?” “You used to believe in the old-fash-ioned notion of one love, and one only.” “One love; it is possible that it may be transferred,” she said. “At least, your love is not large enough to embrace ordinary human nature with its faults and follies,” he said, bitterly; “I have discovered that. The objects of your regard must be free from blemishes—faultless.” Her eyes lightened. “No, Rex; love does not regard faults. Believe me, I do not willfully refuse what you ask. But the friendship abused, the love slighted ten years ago, are beyond my power to recall. Spare me, Rex. Do you think I do not suffer also ? Does

it cost me notMng to deny you now what then I so gladly gave ?” Rex rose, and held out his hands. “There is no hope for me then, Lorraine? Ah! dear, give me the rightgive me the right that I want, for old iove’s sake,” he pleaded. She shook her head sadly. “There is only one thing that makes the bond of marriage tolerable,” she said, “and that between us two is impossible. The past can never be recalled. W'e are better apart. ”