Rensselaer Republican, Volume 15, Number 12, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 November 1882 — Page 2

A PAIR TRAITRESS; BY EDMUND B. BLAND. I gave my darling a flow’ret of white. In the hush and stillness of the night, idle standing by her side. She took the gift w>th a blush and smile, It lay in he' ma 1 den breast awhile, And then 'twas thrown aside. Ah. W' 11-a-day! blossoms, they say, Wither for want of cate. I pave my darling a ring of gold, / A token her love was mine to hold, Her life was mine to share. She woi e the ring till summer wae o'er, Th n drew i off, and she thought no more O< he who placed it there. Ah. wel -a-day! when women play Some one's heart is aching. I gave my darling a heart of truth, A p i.ele«s boon, the worship of youth, ♦» ich all 1 s hopes and joy. A few short months ands he kept my love, Th n < ast it down, like a worn-out glove, An infant’s broken toy. Ah, we 1-a-day, when maids betray, Wounded love m st perish.

"I WAIT FOR MY STORY.”

“Nan!” “Yea’m.” “That young Englishman comes here much too often.” Mrs. Delly took several cautious stitches in her sofa-pillow embroidery, and looked as if she had something on her mind. Her pretty niece yawned over her magazine before looking up. Nan Browning was pretty. If she had not been this story would very likely never have been written, for it has to do with the fascinations of her golden eyes. Yes, they were really golden eyes, of a deeper tone than her yellow hair, but bright and much too brilliant to be called brown or hazel. Nan knew she was pretty in a sort of a way. Everybody had told her so ever since she could remember. Whenever she went to a party she was always described by the society reporters as the “belle of the occasion.” If she wore a twenty-five-cent muslin, with a lot of violets, cheap in their season, her “toilet” was described at length, her muslin transformed into a crepe de chine, and her violets into “rare exotics.” One of the youthful journalists, Frank Humphrey by name, who described Nan semi-spasmodically in his paper, fell in love with her the first time he saw her—genuinely, desperately and deeply in love with her. He was a clergyman's sbn, and had ideals. He was “doing” society temporarily for his paper, expecting promotion to the religious column. .But all at once he ceased applying to his city editor for the sermon department, and devoted him-elf to society witli an ardor which caused his salary to be raised $3 a week, with a word of recommendation from the managing editor which made his heart bound with joy. His heart always jumped with joy whenever it had a chance, it was usually so terribly weighed down with depression at thought of the immense distance between himself and Nan. Not that Nan was rich. On the contrary, Nan hadn’t a cent in the world, and Frank knew it. But her aunt, with whom she lived, had money, and knew how to dress Nan becomingly, and how to introduce her into rich people’s society, and there Frank had no means of pursuing her, for, alack-a-day for the course of true love, they all lived in Chicago. If they had been placed by kindly fate in some romantic city, where Frank eoßld have played the amorous flute under her window clad in a russetvelvet coat, there might have been some hope to beat a cheering roundelay in the poor boy’s bosom. But there he was in Chicago, and with only a reporter’s entree into those gilded palaces where Nan shone resplendent on such festal occasions as Clara Whitelead’s wedding or Susie Porking’s debut. Clearly there was nothing for it but to hold fast to the position of society reporter until he could at least win an introduction to Nan, and have the felicity <)f a glance for himself from the depths of those golden eyed. A six-month before Frank Humphrey would have declared it impossible that he should lose his heart to a girl to whom he had never even made a bow. He was just out of college, and had those profound theories about women in general that youths of his age are St to cherish. His experience with em was all in the future, when he applied for and obtained a place on the -Chicago Morning Between-Seas. It wys a good deal like his literary experience. He had taken a prize for ■composition on his graduation day, and his name had been in all the papers, And he had been proud and happy. He had felt as though he was on the high road to fame and success. By the way, success is fame, and fame is success, but this is a st-ory, and has no vital relation to such parenthetical statements. I said that Frank Humphreys experience with womankind had been .-about like his literary experience. It was of about the same value to his real life. He had been tremendously interested in somebody or other when he w s 16, or thereabouts. So all the rubbish had been cleared out of his heart, :and the flame that Nan’s eyes lit on its hearth was clear and bright aud enduring. T suppose I ought not to say enduring. No flames are enduring of themselves. It is in their nature to burn out; but in this earnest young spirit there was a certain loyalty to itself which would keep the vestal fire burning always for sake of the loved one and for sake of the love. Of course Nan did not know anything of all this on tho sunshiny morning when Mrs. Delly looked up from her embroidery to say to her pretty niece, “That young Englishman comes here much too often.” As you already know, Nan yawned

over her magazine before replying. There are so many sorts of yawns that it is no wonder Mrs. Delly did not know how to interpret this one, and paused to reflect before proceeding with the lecture she had been planning. Not coming to any conclusion, she very sensibly inquired, “What do you mean by yawning that way, my dear?” “It was the story, Auntie. I beg your pardon. It is one of Mr. Howells’. I know it is the fashion to admire him; but I don’t. I detest him. He makes all his characters go introspecting into their hearts and motives and intentions, till they don’t know what they are and who they are, anyway, you know.” Nan finished her very evident quotation with another yawn, after the comical little drawl in which she had imitated the Englishman. Mrs. Delly laughed. “I say again, Mr. Hargrave comes here too often. See how you read the stories he dislikes, and quote his opinions.” This was not a wise speech on the part of Mrs. Delly; but wisdom comes. Nan made a little grimace. “What shall I. do? Shall I sav to him, ‘My Dear Sir —I am out of school now, and my auntie doesn’t like to have me talk to boys as much as I used to when I was 16. Hoping you will take this gentle bint, I am yours truly, Angela Browning?’” “That’sso, you were christened Angela. I always - thought that was so good of your mother. I liad so nearly forgotten it that you might say I didn’t know it.” Frank Humphrey knew, however, that Nan’s mine was Angela, and he thought the heavenly name quite suited to the sweet child-like facj he loved. “If lean make her care for me some day in this sort of way,” he said to himself once, as he was sitting in his lonely room, dreaming over a volume of Jean Ingelow’s poems: “If I can make her care she will care so much.” He had been reading “The Songs of Seven,” and his heart beat fast at thought of that wistful face of the girl of 14. “I wait for my story,” he said, “I will make Angela love me some wav, somehow. ” And then he remembered he m ust be off on his duty. He wrote his report that night of Mrs. Lumberman’s reception in a sort of dazed way, for he heard some one say something as he sat writing in a little smoking-room back of the grand parlor. This was what he heard: “It will be a good match for little Nan. She is deucedly pretty, and deserves the luck, and they say Hargrave has no end of money.” He remembered every word of it with torturing distinctness. He returned to the office, after going home, long after midnight, and hunted up his “copy” in the printer’s waste, to assure himself that he had not written those words with his description of the gown Nan wore. Nan had laughed at that description commenced reading the magazineZstory which was interrupted by Mrs. felly’s remark alreadv quoted: “That Englishman comes here much too often.” Nan had hardly finished her mocking litt e speech in reply, when her aunt saw a sudden change in the girl’s face turned toward the window. It was an indescribable expres-ion, incomprehensible to Mrs. Delly, because the feeling which caused it was equally little understood by Nan herself. Mrs. Delly was a practical woman, not given to what Hargrave called “introspecting,” and she looked out of the window to see what Nan had seen to bring the inexplicable look into her eyes. And there was Hart Hargrave, in a tweed suit and an abominable cap, whirling by on his bicycle, with an absorbed air, as if bicycling was the one and only earthly occupation worthy the a tention of a Christian and an Englishman. That was Hargrave’s nationality coming to the surface. His countrymen are at their best in those out-door exercises which show off their splendid muscular development, and Hargrave was as proud of his arms and his inches as any son of his island. If the truth were known, he was conscious that he was on Dearborn avenue, despite his absorption in himself; He was fully aware that he was directly beneath Mrs. Delly’s windows, and he wondered inwardly if Nan saw him and admired him. He had seen her and admired her, and fairness demanded tha' she should do likewise. Indeed, he had seen her many times, and admired her very much, for Nan had golden eyes. Hargrave’s own were a bright brown, and his hair was not too dark. He was tall and athletic, and knew how to wear a dress-coat better than any man in Chicago. There was no acquired .virtue in that, however. He came of a race of dress-coated diners, whose evening clothes are part of their religion. Hargrave himself rather despised a man who dined in a frockcoat, before he came to Chicago. It was a mining speculation that brought him to America. He had been in Denver and Leadville, apd was wa ting in Chicago the result of certain business evolutions. He had letters of introduction to somebody who introduced him into Nan’s world. Hargrave rather looked down on the world, but looked up, a long way up, to Nan herself. He found himself lingering an unconscionable time in Chicago. He haunted Mrs. Delly’s parlors with persistence. He called them “drawipg-rooms,” and rather lisped the “r” Nan said, feeling it her duty to be funny about international peculiarities. Nan belonged to the Margaret Fuller Society, and read Emerson, and knew

some of Swinburne’s sonnets, and doted on Wagner’s music. At least, she said she did, and, doubtless, thought so, with the lovely enthusiasm of 19. She talked to Hargrave about these things, and he listened with amazement He had thought that only ugly girls and old maids knew of such things, and told Nan so in his straightforward way of complimenting. Hargrave lingered in Chicago. When any one asked him if he intended proposing to Miss Browning, he looked grave, snd retreated into himself. He did not understand outside interference with a man’s private affairs. I have read somewhere that a good story-writer lets his characters tell their own story in their own words. Very .well. Scene: The avenue. Dramatis personce: Miss Browning, Mr. Hargrave, young gentleman on his bicycle returning ; young lady standing on the edge of the stone pavement in an embarrassed way examining minutely a bit of scarlet wool which she has pulled out of the tiny package she carries. In the distance, and invisible, Mrs. Delly congratulating herself by her library fire on her good management in sending Nan to match wools at a moment when she would be sure to meet Hargrave returning from his morning run. You perceive that Mrs. Delly liked Hargrave, and practically advocated his interests while opposing them theoretically to Nan. Mrs. Delly believed in the rule of contraries with young girls. That is a good rule if practically put into operation.. The only trouble is that the young girls have so much innate contrariness that the application of it externally produces the wrong effect, like that old rule in the grammars about the double negatives. That is a prologue or an epilogue, as you like it, the scene you have before you. Here is the dialogue: “The morning is quite delicious, Miss Browning.” “Yes, indeed, is it not?” “Have you enjoyed your walk?” “Oh, very much. Have you had a pleasant ride?” “Oh, jolly, awfully jolly. There is nothing more refreshing than a brisk run on a bracing morning like this. It quite sets a man up for all day. ” “Yes, indeed, I should think so. Do you ride bicycles much in England?” “Oh, very much. It is quite the thing now. And ladies go on tricycles, too. I fancy you would like that sort of thing.” “Oh, no, indeed, I am sure I shouldn’t. I must go home now. My aunt will be waiting for her wools!” “Oh, yes, how stupid of me to keep you here! May I say good morning?” “Oh, yes, good morning!” “Good morning; Isay, Miss Brown“Yes?” Good morning. Or, that is, shall you be at home after dinner to-day ?” “Yes; so will Aunt Delly. Good morning.” “Good morning.” Now, all that sounds very stupid on paper, but it looked tragically living to Frank Humphrey, who happened to be walking by on the opposite side of the street, though hd" could not hear a word of the eminently interesting conversation I have set down for you. First of all, he saw Nan coming along the pavement. He felt a thrill of consciousness that she had a little scarlet shawl around her shoulders. Frank had a sort of poetic instinct as to Nan’s colors. It was more than the usual lover’s sensitiveness. He was accustomed to see her in white at her parties, and he thought of her oftenest as Angela. When, as sometimes happened, he saw her in her street dress, she was Nan to him; but now, with the scarlet wrap and the bright color in her cheeks, at sight of Hart Hargrave she was suddenly transformed into Miss Browning, of Dearborn avenue, and he realized himself to be poor Frank Humphrey, of the Morning BetweenSeas. He saw Hargrave jump from his wheel and take the girl’s hand. He saw her embarrassment, and it cut his heart. He had so' recently heard the society talk about their engagement, and he had no means even of guessing that it might not be true, yet he fiercely determined from his very soul that Nan should never belong to any man but himself. He saw Hargrave’s animation of manner; he saw that he took her hand again at parting. He walked very slowly, and hated Hargrave bitterly for his chances, and then he turned and walked the other way, crossing the street so as to be near Nan, while Hargrave whirled off into a side street. Is was in the forenoon. There was no one on the avenue for a long distance. Nan looked around, saw Humphrey, and stopped short, waiting for him, and looked directly at him os he approached her, feeling irresistibly the fascination of his eyes. I can’t explain it, I only know that it happened. Frank stopped near her, and they looked full into each other’s eyes for a second. Then Nan drew her scarlet shawl around her shoulders with a shiver and almost ran t > her home, while Frank walked away in a tumult of emotion. Nan had only one—a feeling of outrage, of keen indignation. She had seen that face somewhere, but it had never impressed her. The man might be a ribbon clerk or a slipper man, for aught she knew. He had no right to look at her so, and make her unable to help looking at him. There was the sting.. Nan sat down on the floor and cried. There was no meaning in her crying. She couldn’t help it on general principles, and that would have been the end of this queer l&tle moment of the girl’s life if Hart

Hargrave Tiad not se*n the miens meeting and parting. Humphrey had seen him talking with Nan; and fate, with a little bit of her own irony, gave Hart a tremendous twinge of jealousy at seeing this strange little encounter, although he was nearly two squares away. Bound whirled his good bicycle, and back into the avenue came the Englishman, rushing toward Nan and destiny in a desperate sort of way. He had seen men in society talking to her, and felt confident that he was preferred before them all. And now he saw her stop for a moment beside some one whom she did not know, and the sunshine went out of the world suddenly. Hart Hargrave saw that the future light of his summer days was all in Nan Browning’s eyes. He wondered why he had been waiting to tell her, and turned with the impulse of his heart in words upon his lips. Whether he was blinded by the sunshine, or the swift insight into his own well-regulated emotions, I cannot tell you, but, someway,or other, he fell. Humphrey heard and saw the fall, and ran toward him. A fall of that sort is nothing to a man like Hargrave, ordinarily; but a bad pavement comer and a frosty morning make small mishaps great, and Hargrave lay unconscious, with a little blood on his face, as Humphrey lifted his head. To the first passer-by he left Hart, ran straight to Mrs. Delly’s house and asked for Miss Browning. To you that may show undisciplined youth; to me it looks generous and good; to Humphrey it meant a chance to see Angela, per >aps to hear her speak to him, even theugh it was to say loving, pitying words of Hargrave. Nan came into the parlor with her scarlet shawl still around her shoulders, and the signs of tears in her golden eyes. She stopped short, looking frightened when she saw who her visitor was. Humphrey rose, grave and calm. He told her his name, saying, “Mr. Hargrave has just met with an accident on his wheel. Do you wish him brought here?” “Why, no; he doesn’t live here,” said Nan, simply. Then, “I will call my aunt;” and she vanished. This was too good an opportunity for Mrs. Delly to lose. Certainly Hargrave should be brought to her house, and Humphrey’s spirits, which had risen at Nan’s indifference, sunk fatally again at her aunt's interest. But he went off bravely with the servant Mrs. Delly sent, and helped bring Hart up to the house; then he went down on the lake shore and looked at the water, and wished he could lie down forever in its cool, green depths. That afternoon Humphrey wrote a poem, which was printed later on in one of the big magazines and copied all over the country, bringing a pang of memory to many hearts which had loved and longed and lost. Not that Humphrey knew when he wrote the poem that he had lost something never attained. It was one of those prophetic lovers’ insights that do happen to people sometimes. That same afternoon Nan sat reading to Hargrave, who lay on the sofa in her aunt’s library. Mrs. Delly was busy with her embroidery, in the bay window, across the room. Hargrave looked pale and touching. His forehead was bound up in line linen, and a purple rug that Nan had made was spread over him. I don’t care about telling the rest of this story, so I will fall back upon that good rule of letting the characters do so. My thoughts are with Frank Humphrey, and I c >n’t help wondering if he could possibly have taught Nan the story in the deep way he had learned it. Perhaps if Hart Hargrave had not fallen off his bicycle into the arms of a friendly future, the light Frank dreamed of might have gleamed in Nan’s eves; she might have learned the depths and heights of the meaning she saw in Frank Humphrey’s eyes in that moment when they two stood face to face, heart looking at heart. Hargrave stopped Nan’s reading. “Please bring your chair a little nearer. I can’t hear you distinctly,” he said. Nan did so, feeling a little tremor of apprehension, but not having much time for her Saxon; he spoke at once in a low, but, tremendously earnest tone: “I should like this sort of thing to go on always. I can make you happy, Nan ; I will. I promise you I will. There is no one you like better, is there ?” Nan looked down at her hands, and said “No,” truthfully, and without a flutter of her heart. “Will you take me, then? I will make you a good husband, dear. I never cared so much for any girl, and I have seen a good many. Your home will be a long way from here, but I will make it a happy one. Will you trust me?” “Yes, if Aunt Dally says so,” said Nan. She rose and rushed off to her room and cried for the second time that day. Then she bathed her eyes and began to plan about her wedding gown, and to wonder what her English home would be like. And they all had dinner very happily. During the next half year the Chicago Morning Between-Seas published a column account of the wedding festivities of Miss Angela Browning and Mr. Hart Hargrave, of Blankshire, England. Humphrey did not write the report. He had been promoted, and somebody else had charge of the Social Department. — The Wheelman.

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