Democratic Sentinel, Volume 10, Number 13, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 April 1886 — BLIGHTED HOPES. [ARTICLE]

BLIGHTED HOPES.

Mark saw the paragraph before I did. I wondered, to-day, looking back, if I could have controlled myself sufficiently to prepare him for the shock if I had read the newspaper first. I was passing Mark’s cup of coffee to Jane, the servant, when I caught sight of his face. It was white and rigid, and his eyes were dilated in a stare horrible to see. “Mark!” I cried, in terror. “What is it, dear? Are you ill?” I was beside him as I spoke, and saw that his eyes were fixed on a certain place in the paper he had been reading. Then I, too, read the fatal paragraph, only a few line s, but full of horror for Mark. “Do not blame her!” he said, in a -Whisper, shuddering as he spoke. “Oh, Bessie, Bessie, my heart is broken!” I put my arms around him, and drew his head down upon my breast, where it had so often lain in childhood, when my orphaned brother came to sister Bessie to be comforted in boyish woes. He was my only brother, though I was sixteen years the eldest. Little graves in the cemetery marked the sorrows of my childhood, and one after another my brothers and sisters had drooped and died, until only Mark was left. And he was but four years old when our parents both died. We were not poor, owning our own handsome home, and a comfortable income; so Mark had every advantage of education, studied the law, and had gradually won his way to a position in his profession. And I had married, lost my husband, and returned after an absence of only three short months, to resume my place as my brother’s housekeeper. It was just after Mark had finished his studies, and been admitted to the bar, that he met Alice Arnold. She had come to Claymont to visit her aunt, a near neighbor and. an old friend of ours, and we called to welcome her among us. She was about eighteen years old then, and her beauty won its way to my heart as surely as it did to Mark's. She was the most timid, gentle creature I ever saw, her color flitting if you spoke to her, her shy blue eyes drooping, and her voice low and almost plaintive in its timidity. Miss Arnold, a strong, energetic old maid, seemed actually to terrify her by her short, brusque manner, but she clung to me from the first hour of our friendship.

Children generally like me, and she was little more than a child. Yet when she became more intimate, and came often to pass whole days with me, I found that below the frightened, timid manner there was a clear brain, an intellect that had been carefully cultivated, and a sweet womanly nature. She was an enthusiastic musician and a fine pianist, but could not sing. Nothing delighted her more than to play for Mark and myself, to sing duets, or, if I was tired or busy, to hear Mark sing, in his rich baritone voice, the music he loved. I asked myself, after she had ended her summer visit, if she was a coquette, a cruel, heartless flirt, who would win a man’s heart only to cast it aside. And, in my bitterness then, I thought she was. In later years I acquitted her of the crime. I believe she had no suspicion that Mark loved her. He was always grave and reserved, and, although he was but tw’enty-three at that time, had the air and bearing of a much older man. And I being really so much her senior, I think Alice looked upon us both as rather elderly people, and was far more free and confidential than she would have been if she looked upon Mark as a young man and a lover.

But Mark, who had never cared before for any of our girl friends, gave to Alice Arnold all the store of love his heart could ever offer. I knew it, for Mark had made me his confidential friend all his life, and seeing her shy pleasure in his presence, the interest she took in his pursuits, her gentle acceptance of his grave attentions, I thought his love was returned, and was happy in the expectation of a nearer, closer tie between the sweet, loving girl and myself. \ But, just before she left Claymont, Mark, telling her his love, was answered by the tidings that she was engaged to be married. She was dreadfully distressed, coming to me to sob out her regret that Mark loved her, but loyally asserting her own love for her betrothed. After she had left us, Miss Arnold took me into confidence. She told me that her niece was an heiress, and her mother was a fool. I am quoting Miss Arnold! She said that Hemy Parker, the man who had won Alice’s childish love, was a showy, handsome fellow of whom the family knew nothing, but who was distrusted by all of them excepting the mother, who should have been the girl’s protector, but was completely fascinated by the lover’s attention# to herself. Mark said but little to me, but I knew that he suffered keenly. He made some inquiries in the city about Henry Parker, and was convinced that he was an adventurer. I think my brother could have borne his own

burden better if Alice had chosen a max worthy of her love, but he feared for het future happiness, thinking her betrothed had dazzled her imagination, rather than won her heart. When we received cards for the wedding I thought of refusing to attend, but Mark decided to go, and we sent our wedding gift, and went up to town to be at the ceremony in the church, and the wedding breakfast afterward. I could not wonder when I saw Henry Parker that he had won Alice’s love. He was superbly handsome, and had the winning manner calculated to change her timidity into a trusting love. And he took the love and the trust to betray both, to change the love to a shuddering horror, the confiding trust to a shrinking fear. Little by little the poor girl roused to the fact that her husband despised the very gentleness he had so often praised, and that the charm of a full purse was the one that had attracted him to his wife. Probably a father or a guardian would have Erotected Alice’s fortune after marriage, ut it was in her own control, her mother being her only guardian. And Henry Parker spent it freely; at first in a profuse style of living, in luxuries his wife could share, but later in gambling and low vice, traveling the downward path with fearful rapidity. Six years after his marriage he deserted his wife, who returned to her mother, and a year later the newspapers gave her the account of his death in a continental gamblingroom, where he was shot in a scuffle. It was after a year of widowhood that Alice Parker came once more to Claymont, her sweet face pale and sad, and her blue eyes often dreamily mournful. She was but little changed, though older and graver than in her girlhood. The long bright summer passed happily, and in September Alice was to return to her mother to prepare for a quiet wedding. My brother was to be the happy man at last. It was the evening before she was to leave us that Miss Arnold invited Mark and myself to tea, We were all in the sittingroom early in the evening, when a gentleman asked for Mrs. Parker, and Alice turned very white as she introduced Mr. George Parker. “My husband’s brother,” she said, aside tome. “He was always very kind to me.” For a few moments after his introduction Mr. Parker sat in embarrassed silence Then he said, very suddenly, “I do not know whether my news will s be .good news or bad news to you, Allie. I come to tell you, as soon as possible after hearing it myself, that Harry is not dead.”

Alice did not faint or scream. White as death, she said, steadily, “Why did he conceal it from me?” “He did not intentionally. He was left for dead, and afterward taken to a hospital, but as he got better in other ways, the doctors found his brain was weakened. He was sent to an insane asylum, and it was only two weeks ago that he recovered his sanity enough to send for me. I went to him at once, and brought him to my house. He is strong and well, and asks for you to go to him.” “Yes; I shall go to mother’s to-morrow,” Alice said. “Will you bring him tome?” There seemed no question of her duty in her pure heart, but the hopeless misery of her fair face was heart-breaking to witness. Mr. Parker left in time for an early return train to London, and Miss Arnold took me to her own room to look at some lace. “Let them be alone,” she said to me. “It is for the last time. I know Alice. Under that shrinking, gentle manner there is a strong martyr spirit, and she will do her duty at any cost. Oh, the poor child! the poor child! And we broke into, bitter weeping together, for as deeply as she grieved for Alice did I grieve for my brother. I did not see Alice again. Mark met me in the hall, and saying to Miss Arnold, “Go in to her—comfort her if you can,” he drew my hand through his arm and led me out of the house. That was just one week ago. To-day we read in the local paper this paragraph: “Mrs. Henry Parker, residing at 232 street, S. W., was found dead in her room from the effects of an overdose of chloral. The dose was probably taken accidentally, as Mrs. Parker had been suffering from insomnia, and using chloral to produce sleep.” Mark is locked in his room, and even I dare not intrude upon him, or ask the question that haunts me. Was the overdose taken by accident, or in a moment of utter despair?