Democratic Sentinel, Volume 13, Number 7, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 March 1889 — PAID IN TEARS. [ARTICLE]

PAID IN TEARS.

‘Ernest, don’t on think i + wo’d be pleasant to hare Blanche Graves here for a week? I think I shall ask her.’ ‘lt might be pleasant, mother,’ answered Ernest Trevors, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘but —I —l would rather she wouldn’t . J ome.’ ‘Rather she wouldn’t come!’ repeated Mrs. Trevors. ‘Ernest, you grow more pecul ar eeery day. May I ask why you would rather she wouldn’t come?’ ‘I can’t give you my reasons, mother.’ ‘I don t believe you have any,’ said Mrs. Trevors. ‘\\ h<*re wo’d you find a lovelier, dearer girl, than B'anche? How can you dislike her? And lam sure you paid her a great deal of attention at Mrs. Bray’s party.’ An expression of pain passed over Ernest’s pale face. ‘Whmh I deeply regretted when the party was over,’he said. ‘Now, mother, do not bring Miss Graves here. I shall spend the time in the city if you do. ’ ‘Of course 1 shall not ask her, then,’ said Mrs. Trevors. ‘But you try me almost beyond endurance, Ernest. You know yonr father’s last wish was hat you should marry, and yet you seem to think nothing of it, and pass by the nicest girls in the neighborhood as if they were nothing but sticks or stones.’

‘I am sorry I have disappointed you, mother.’ ‘I was sure you liked Blanohe,’ continued Mrs. Trevors. ‘I have seen you look at her with all your soul in your eyes. But ever since yeu came back from the college you’ve been so peculiar there’s no understanding you.’ Ernest sait no more, but left the room, ordered his horse, and was sxm galloping over thefhid and dale, the look of pain still on his handsome face, and a fiercer pain still tugging at his quivering heartstrings.

‘Oh, but to recall one hour of the past,’ he muttered betweeu his set teeth. ‘What would I not gire^' Me drew rein at last before a small white gate, dismounted, fastened his horse to a stake, and entering the grss-grown yard, knocked at the. door of a small frame house, surrounded by trees, and almost covered with bare vines, which in summer blossomed bounteously. An old woman, neat and quiet in appearance, answered his knocs, and expressing no surprise at seeing him, led the way into a room to the right, where a little girl of about five years of age sat on the floor playing with s-. me blocks. She was a beaut ful child, with curly, golden hair, eyes blue as gentians; and regular features. She sprang up as Er est entered and ran to him, her face dimpling wiih smiles. He took her into bis arms ind kissed and caressod her, stroking her hair tenderly; and yet his face retained its sad, pained look. He remained until she fell asleep at last, wearied with play, and then, with a few words to the old woman respecting her charge, he rode away again. He Lad gone nearly half way home when an incident occurred which he could well have dispensed with in his present frame of mind. A carriage came bowling along the road and as it met him, the driver, at a signal from some one inside, pulled up with a jerk. A young lady, with d rk, glowing eyes, rippling chestnut hair, lips like a pomegrarate, and the dark, rich complexion of a Spaniard, leaned out of the window. ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Trevors,’ she exclaimed. ‘Have you been to Larch mere?’ ‘No,’ lie answered. ‘And it is as well sicca you were away.’ ‘Gome on Wednesday,’ she said. ‘We are to have some target shooting. 5 Ernest .Trevors hesitated. ‘lipust not promise,’ he said, at

length. ‘I may go to the city tomorrow,’ ‘Can’t the visit to the city wait?’ she earnestly pleaded. He smiled, tryirg to look gay. ‘I will see,’ he said, and lifted his hat gracefully with one gloved hand as the driver touched up his herses and carriage passed b’. ‘I hope he will come,’ said the young girl, as she sank beck in her seat. ‘He will not,’ responded the other occupant of the carriage, a lady some vears older. ‘You need not expeetjhim. He has not the slightest intention ot coming, and you deceive yourself If you think he cares one iota for you, Blanche. He is n< t a marrying man.’ Blanohe Graves flushed ly‘l hope I do not appear to ceurt him, Augusta,’ he said, haughtily. Her sister laughed harshly. ‘I don’< wonder you desire to marry,’ she said. ‘Jf course it isn’t pleasant for you to be de{>endent upon your brother-in-aw’s charity.’

The tears started to Blanche’s eyes. ‘You say very cruel things to* me, Augusta,’ she said. ‘lf it was not for Willoughby I would leave tc-day to ears a living for myself.’ ‘Better m rry.’ ‘I would marry no man unless I loved him ’ said Blanche. ‘Psaawl Yeu are too poor for euch foolish notions; and you aie simply wasting time in waiting for Ernest Trevors to propose to you; he’ll never do it, you may de. end on that.’ Blanohe made no reply, and the rest of the drive to Larch mere was passed in silence. But Blanche’s thoughts were very bitter. Kind as Willoughby Withered was to her, &*d little as he made her feel her dependence upon his bounty, there were times when it almost drove her mad to think of it.

As Augusta .had predicted, the target-shooters on the following Wednesday did not include Ernest Trevors. Blanche had received a note from him very early in the day, saying that his visit to the city prevented bis being present; and she tried to hide her disappointment as best she could, wondering that he should be so changed since that balmy night at. Mrs. Bray’s, when he had scarcely left her side. And now —she could but acknowledge to herself the bitter truth—he Avoided her.

Ernest, on his arrival in the city, went straight to a hotel. He was restless and unhappy, and felt gLd, when, on entering the dining-hall, he met one of his college friends. ‘Sydney Hopper!’ he said. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’ Sydney, a great, hearty, joviil fellow* wrung Ernest’s hand vith every symptom of joy. ‘I haven’t get eyes on you since we left college five ears ago,’ he said. ‘When you were so immensely taken with that lovely little dancer at the Variety.’ Ernest starte . and turned quite pale. ‘Tell me what has become of all the fellows we used to know,’ he said. They talked after dinner for a couple of hours, and then Sydney proposed an adjournment to the theatre. ‘There’s an immense thing at the B ,’ he remarked. ‘A spectacular drama, with a lot of very pretty girls. I haven’t seen it, but a fellow 1 know told me it was worth going to.’ •I haven’t been inside a theatre since I left college,’ said Ernest. ‘All the more reason why you should go now;’ rejoined Sidney, in a bantering ton#. ‘You were one of the best patrons the Variety ever had, and you can’t have lost ail taste for such a musement. Why you used to be wretched if you couldn’t get to s*e that fraud, pretty little Sibylla about every nigh L’ ‘Well, let’s be off, if we are going,’ said Ernest, staGiug up. ,Anything is better than sitting

here recalling the folios 0 f onst * g youth.’ The theatre was packer pj* parquet, and gallery were it was with some difficulty Ab+ Ernest and Sydney got seats. Every eye wai fixed eagerly on the stage as the curtain rose upon a spectacular drama on a very brilliant scale. The first scene presented was a mermaid's cave where half a dozen pretty mermaids, golden, glittering and sealy, danced and sang perpetually in the midst of imitation coral, picturesque rocks s udded with sham brilliants, and seafoam made of green tarletan. They sang of their queen who was supposed to be sleeping in one of the recesses of the cave There was a little ripple of excitement as the queen herself came floating forward, more golden, glittering, and soaly than her sisters, her yellow hair loeped with seaweed, her fair rouged face all smiles, her rosebud mouth pouring forth liquid melody. ‘By heavens!’ whispered Sydney, ‘its our little Sibylla! Who’d have thought she’d risen to this?’ Ernest Trevors djd not answerHe had grown deadly pale, and was trembling in every limb. But Sydney was too deeply er grossed with the pretty actress to observe his friend’s agitation. The strange look in Ernest Trevors’ eyes, the pallor which had overspread his face on Sibylla’s entrance npon tha stage dia not leave it even when the play was over, and the dainty quean of the mermaids has ascended out of sight bv means of a sea shell and some coral ropes. He did aot sleep all that night. He sat at the window of his room, looking out on the night, with that old cry ever on his lips: ‘Oh, but to recall one hour of the past.’ The next night he was again a witness to the spectaoular drama, his eyes rivited on the queen of t :e mermaids from first to last, and he trembled a little with sudden fear as he saw her ascend by the t Dral ropes, kissing hand to the audience as she rocked lightly in the pink shell. The following night he was there again. A very strange fascination must that drama have held for him! His mother wondered at his long stay, and wrote, urging his return; but leave be could not so long as the spell of the mermaid queen was upon him. It was tne last night the drama was to be presented. The theatre was packed, as usual, and the gold-en-haired queen sang and danced her best almost to the end But when she came on for the last act she appeared excited, and her face was flushed. Ernest knew at once —perhaps he had good cause to knew—that the change was due to brandy; and he shrank back in disgust as she came dancing forward, poising herself on the toes of her tiny slippers and twirling around lik t a sprite. About her danced Ijer golden, glittering sisters, and all united in a final burst of song as the queen sprang into her tiny sea-shed, and the coral ropes whirled her thro’ the air. She leaned out, kissing her hand as she was about to disappear, and then —no one ever knew just how it happened—but the shell tilted forward there was a wild shriek from the little dancer, a shout from the men at the wings, and a little heap of gold and silver tinsel, white tarletan and yellow hair lay on the stage.

Ernest was almost the first beside her, and he pushed away the men who would have raised her, and took her into his own arms. ‘Stand back!’ he said. ‘Do not touch her.’ ‘What’s she to you?’ erhd the manager, rushing forward. ‘She is my wife,’ was the answer, and none who looked at his white, set face and burning eyes doubted lii strttement. She lived only three hour uiiCi was unconscious to the last. She did not know who sa- belide her, divinest pity in his heart; who smoothed her yellow hair damp

with death s dews. Perhaps it wa. as well, for between her and this man with the set, white face and burning eye had been dead«£s hatred -for five leng years. V*t| * * * * * w J4pher,’ said Ernest Trevors, a ry wif^ er ’ 8,8 entered the libraask a ! slld Bafc alonG > 1 waut bring a cH r , , o£ vo * m .f *o for her? &Lr® re - Will you care ‘Whose chite 8 “° ri her -L vors in surprise Tre‘Mine, mother. ‘Yours?’ Mrs. x say no more for aY or . B c °uld She thought her son ,118 “ mcn tgone mad. ‘Let me tell you about it, er. It has been a terrible sVf“" for me to keep. When at coll?£ I became infatuated with a variety actress, who was very beautiful. I married her .* It was not long before 1 bitterly repented of my rash aet, for I discovered her true character. She was coarse, illbred, unprincipled, and drank, Oiten to excess. I dared not tell my secret to any one. I could not bring Her home to disgraee us all; so I paid her to let me go free, and uive me eur child. I <*ould havehad a divorce—Heaven knows there was cause enough—but I would not drag my father’s name through the mud of a divorce court. But my burden is lifted forever; Sibylla is dead, and I do waufto acknowledge my child.’ Mrs. Trevors rose, and going close to her son, put her arms about him and drew his head to her brerst. ‘My po r Ernest,’ she said, ‘my poor boy! 1 understand now many thing! that have been a mystery to me.’ The announcement that Ernest Trevors had been married early in life greatly startled the community ip JE&isJ? he lived. But none save his mother know who or what his wife had been, or when her death had taken place. The secret of poor Sibylla’s stained life was well kept. But a year inter the sad story was told to Blanche Graves, who lifting, her sweet face to her lover, when he had finished, let him read in her eyes her pity and love for him.