Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 45, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 November 1894 — Silence [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Silence

By Miss Mulock

CHAPTER lll—Continued. An hour afterward he had safely located his charges at the house of a friend of Mme. Jardine's, where she was thankful to rest, had shared the hospitable meal, and was lingering uneasily about, shy and strange, when some one remarked that the English monsieur ought certainly to climb La Signale, and see what, all travelers knew, is one of the finest views in Switzerland. But there was no one to show him the way, except two little boys, sons of the house, and Silence. A sudden impulse, as of a man wh6 is determined to have his way, conquered Roderick’s diffidence. “Madame, will you trust her with me? It is not Swiss fashion, I know, but in England I should be thought good knight enough to deserve the charge of any fair damsel, if she would so far condescend. Maiamoiselle mi cousiner”

Silence looked up, looked down, and smiled. The mother cast a penetrating glance at the two, so innocently happy in one another's company. "Tne good God makes it, not I, ’ muttered'she to nerself. “My daughter, you, Adolphe, and Henri will show the view to our dear English cousin. He will acknowledge there is scarcely a more beautiful sight to be seen in this world.” He did acknowledge it, when, having climbed the steep hill alone—for Silence mounted merrily with a big schoolboy at either hand—ho saw the whole lake from Geneva to Montreux, with its girdle of mountains from Mont Blanc to the Bernese Alps, spread before- him like a picture, as still and as clear. Suddenly, thiough the gray, cloudy sky, the sun broke out, poured down a torrent of light, like a cataract of molten gold, into the lake, then spanned it wiih a bridge of rays from shore to shore. “Oh, how lovely,” cried Roderick, and both of them, shading their eyes from the dazzling glory, stood watching it, till the descending sun, suddenly touching the verge of the mist, plunged into it and disappeared. “Is all ended “Not quite, said Silence; ‘wait a minute more.” And through the deathlike grayness which had fallen instantaneously upon mountains, lake and sky. he perceived a gradual, wonderful change. See’.’’ She spoke in English, and touching him—the lightest possible touch, yet it thrilled through every nerve—pointed to the mountains nearest the sunset. What a sight! Slowly a faint color, like a blush, crept over the everlasting snows,’’ deepening more and more as it spread from summit to summit along the whole range of Alps. “It looks as if an angel were stepping from peak to peak with a basket of roses:' “Yes,” Roderick answered, also beneath his breath; ‘only their color is not like earthly roses. We shall never see the like again till we see it in paradise. Please God we may!” As he said the we deliberately, markedly, intentionally, he saw a faint trembling in the sweet mouth, firmly closed though it was: and coming a little closer he took hold—not of her hand, but of her dress. Like a revelation, which some will no more believe in than a blind man could believe in that wondrous sight before them two, there came into him—perhaps into both—the love, the one passionate, yet pure and perfect love, of one man for one woman, which, if both have strength to accept and be true to its blessedness, makes all life a joy, and death itself no longer a fear. For even then, standing close beside her, with the mere touch of her garments and the stirring of her hair giving him a rapture indescribable, Roderick could think of death, of his own dead. Strangely enough, the first words he said were: “Oh, if my father could but have seen this sight!” “Perhaps he does see it, and mine, too. They were friends when they were young.” “Yes. And we? We must be friends all our lives.” “I hope so.” “Friend was the on’y word he dared to say—a wiser worn than he was afrare of; for friends may be lovers some day, but lovers who are not friends will cease to be both. The “colorization” slowly faded, and that cold, gray, deathly shade which comes so suddenly after sunset here bsgan to creep over the sky and lake and mountains-even over Silence’s face; till there came into those faraway eyes of hers an expression—Roderick could have imagined it that of an angel standing by a sealed grave, but looking upward still, waiting for the resurrection day. A few minutes after Roderick followed .Silence down the hill, which she descended as she mounted, with a boy on either hand, and all went back to tea—that simple Swi-s tea which he had long since beg n to prefer to the grandest of Richerden dinners. Dull, to a certain extent, was the journey home, for silence had neither eyes,ears nor thoughts for any creature except her mother; and Roderick, in the _ reaction after strong suppressed feeling, half fancied himself de trop. Shi inking into a corner, he scarcely spoke to either, but soothed himself by taking the tenderest silent care of both mother and daughter till he deposited them at their own door. That kindly “Bon soir!”—“Au revoir!” —just the ordinary adieu which had taken place at the door so many times; this time it was almost briefer than usual, for he saw silence was glad to gst her mother home; and he, too, was not sorry to rush away, afraid lest the strong self-repression of the last few hours might give way and betray him by • ome unguarded look or tone. So he hurried down the stairs, having seen them safe, but scarcely looked at either, scarcely even answered Mme. Jardine’s gentle “Au revoir!” “Au revbir!” How strange it all felt afterward. CHAPTER V. He scarcely slept all night—a new experience to his young, healthy nature: or, sleeping, woke fancying he was falling down a precipice, or Silence was falling and he was leaping in after her—all those vague troubles in which dreams carry out the prominent idea of the day. He rose gladly, but only rose to vexation: no letter from his mother, but one from the family law-

yer, saying Mrs. Jardine had been consulting with him, and that she altogether objected to her son s denuding himself of his patrim ny, the only absolute property he possessed, and giving it to unknown foreign cousins, who might “make' ducks and drakes of it” in no time. \ Spite of his annoyance Roderick could not help laughing. The idea of Silence and her mother as extravagant spendthrifts, bringing to ruin the Jardine inheritance, was too comicaL He had not been lucid enough, he must write again and .explain—what? If he told his mother the whole truth, that he had deliberately made up his mind, and meant, if by God’s blessing he was fortunate in his love, to bring her home as a daughter-in-law this portionless Swiss girl—probably the very last daughter-in-law shq woujd have expected or desired—how would she take it? What would happen? . J In this serious business light he had never before regarded the question; and though it perpleXbd h m, it gave him also a delicious sense of reality. His nebulous passicn Was resolving itself into the clear, steady glow of a fixed love, a love tttqqnt to end in those solemn duties of married Hie which all good men are born for, and good women, too; apd which neither sex can shirk or set aside, or by any sad fate lose, without involving a certain incompleteness in character 1 And destiny. “Yes; I must write again to my mother,” he said,' to himself, and even took up pen and paper. But how to write? Tnat tender confidence —from babyhood to manhohd—which sometimes exists between mother and son, had never existed here. “She would not understand.”

Nevertheless, in writing to his mother, as he at last did write, determining to pay her the just filial respect of telling her his intentions before he made the offer of marriage, he oxplained that he had no idea what Mile. Jardine's answer would be; and he begged her to keep his secret entirely to herself until he could tell her the result. “So the deed is done—thus far,” Baid Roberiek to himself, as he posted the letter, and then braced his courage for the next step. For he judged rightly —no English wooing, trusting to sweet chance and the impulse of the moment, would do here. He must speak to the mother first. Until he won her approval he could never be to Silence more, ostensibly, than a common acquaintance. Trying, but inevitable. So that very evening—giving the gentle invalid a whole day to recover from her fatigue —he determined to pres nt himself, and ask formally of Mme. Jardine permission to woo her daughter. Perhaps he might then bo allowed to tell Silence himself all she was t» him. And when she understood it all—the first look, eye to eye; the first kiss, mouth to mouth; the open, mutual recognition of a love that was to last them through lite, and go with them, please God, into the life eternal—at the bare thought of such bliss the younw man felt dizzy. He naif staggered as he walked, and at last stood quite still at the solitary street corner—the street he knew so well —to command himself before he attempted to mount the stair. Though it wai still early all was dark—the quiet darkness of a mild November night, with the stars shining overhead. Roderick looked up at them, trying to gain a little quietness too. So standing, he scarcely noticed a gentleman, almost as self-absorbed as himself, till they ran right against one another., “Pardon, monsieur,” said t;he kindly voice of M. le Professeur Reynier. “What, Monsieur Jardine—can 'it bo you? How fortunate! I was just coming to pay you a little visit.” Roderick muttered some civil answer. but did not offer to turn back. Indeed, he had come to that point when he felt he could not turn back — could not defer his bliss, or fate, another hour for any mortal creature. “I—another time I shall be most happy. Now—l have an engagement.” "rardon ag,*jn,” said the gentle old man, touchingithp'Arm of tho younger one; “but—wot*e you going there?” He Sointed up the stair Which he had just escended. “Indeed, you must not go:” “Why not?” said Roderick, angrily, then recollecting.himself, a,dded, with a caretul indifterenpe: “Your daughters told me Madame Jardine was not well: I wa3 going to inquire for her.” “Mon Liem” cried M. Reynier, clasping his hands with a gesture Which we unemotional islandeps would smile as as “so un-English!” “Mon Died:—then monsieur does not know.-” “Know whatV” 1 “She is dead—she died this morning. ’’ "She —who?” “Madame Jardine, alas! It was auite sudden—there Was nobody beside her but her daughter. (Juita peaceful, too —without any suffering; and the doctor had dreaded much one day, for, it was disease of tho heart. Her fchild’s only thought now is thankfulness for that. Poor Mademoiselle Silence! Madame Reynier is with her now- she, or my girls, will not .leave her until the interment.” Here the bid man fairly gave way, took out his pocket-handkerchief, and wiped his honest eyes. Roderick wrung his hand in the silent English way—no more. He was utterly stunned. “It can’t he true! it can't be true!” he said in English, putting his hand to his head. “Monsieur is, yery tnpch sb.ockod, I see; and no wonder. I, too, can scarcely comprehend or believe ip. But we must, leave all in the hands of the good God. He will take carp,of her, as she said, poor child! even though she is left an orphan, without any dot, without a penny in the world. , But I will not detain monsieur any longer. Bon soir! Au revoir!” The very words she had said to him in her brief adieusi only twp nights Before on the stair-head —the sweet soul who was now “beyond t&e sun. ’’ Roderick’s heart gave wayi ifvith a great sob, like a child’s. And then he choked and turned away. To! no human being would he betray himself —not now. “Monsieur," and he drew the old man’s arm through his with a tender courtesy. “You will allow me to accompany you home. Then perhaps I may be honored by hearing a little more —perhaps assisting you in the arrangements you will have to make. Remember, lam a relative —I believe, the very nearest relative now left to Mademoiselle Jardine." “Yes, yes, lam very grateful. And. she, too, poor child! she cannot hut be grateful, also, for the monsieur’s goodness. Let us go. ” So they went together—the old man talking volubly and cordially, the younger one replying in little more than monosyllables, through the already empty streets of the little town. CHAPTER VI. There are two kinds of love —man’s love; I am not speaking of woman’s just non The first born of sunshiny

selfism, basking in pleasure. shrinking from any pain, either its own or that of the object beloved, which is, for the time beine, itself; the second, strong as tender, while equally capable of pleasure, fears not pain, either personal or vicarious. Sorrow, suffering, the helplessness of failing powers, only rouse in it a deeper passion, a fonder care. Happy the woman who ha 3 found a resting-place there! She need fear neither sickness nor sorrow, old age or beauty's decline. Living, however sad and broken a life, she will be cherished to the last, and dying, she will be mourned eternally. Such a love, though he knew it not at the time —indeed, he hardly knew himself at all, so suddenly and strangely had circumstances developed his dormant nature—such a love, in all its devotedness and intensity, had taken possession of Roderick’s heart for his "cousin" Silence. He did not attempt to see her—that, of course, was impossible: and he felt capable of making any sacrifice or exercising any self-restraint for her sake; but it seemed as if oply to be near her, throwing over her the faithful shield of his silver love, was at once a consolation and a protection He walked the streets till all lights were out, except that solemn one which marked the death chamber; and then, with a blessing on his lips and a prayer in his heart —young man as fie was, Roderick was not ashamed to pray —he departed. Next morning, at the very earliest hour he could venture without exciting suspicion, he wa3 at the Reyniers'door, to hear all that was to be heard concerning Mile. Jardine, and to volunteer any help that he delicately could to the professeur—who, he saw. was a little perplexed and unpractical —in arranging the details of the funeral. Nay, It being a pelting wet day, and the old man very rheumatio, he succeeded in being allowed himself to go and choose the grave, in the pretty cemetery which all the Neuchatellerois are so proud of, and wnere he had been taken by Mile. Jardine herself one sunshiny Sunday afternoon, almost the first Sunday ho came to the town. Coming back to the Reyniers, he explained all ho had done in the most matter-of fact and unemotional way. He seemed suddenly to have gained the power of unlimited self-restraint, for her sake. To do everything for her that could possibly be done, and never to let her know it, was all he desired. The third day was arranged for the funeral. The only communication that passed between him and Mile. Jardine had been a request he had sent by Sophie Reynier, that he might be allowed to attend it, in right of relationship, and Silence sent him word back that she was “grateful.” This done, there was no more to be done for her; nothing but to wander restlessly about through the long dreary winter day, and wonder how she was bearing it. The very hardest bit to him of all this time was those few hours when, having done all that was possible for him to do, and having no excuse for indicting himself further on the Reynier family, ho went back to the hotel, and tried to lead his ordinary life thore—eating, drinking and sleeping; for he had no young men s small vices; he thought billiards dull, and detested smoking. He could not, this night, even rea i, and it was not until he woke next morning that it occurred to him he ought to write again to his mother, who would just be receiving his letter of two days before. ITO BE CONTINUED. \