Rensselaer Republican, Volume 18, Number 42, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 June 1886 — MISS MARTELLO. [ARTICLE]

MISS MARTELLO.

BY LILY CURRY.

A pole young woman with jet-black hair cot snort behind her ears and heavy circles about her eyes, as if from long and weary vigils; quietly dressed in brown, was walking Blowly as if lost in thought! Miss Martello was either alrendy ill, or, as the head doctor had predicted, “coming down” with the fever. That was why they had turned her out of the hospital, she said to herself, smiling bitterly the while. She was unable to perform her duties. But even as she said this, other thoughts came forcing themselves upon her, in the same connection, The voice of the doctor who had so brusquely given her marching orders, — had it been quite steady? Had not hits} hand closed upon her own with a painful pressure as. at the final moment, he flung out a breathless sort of—“ God bless you! no other nurse can take your place!” She remembered this parting in a languid way, as she walked down from the hospital toward the village center, and she realized her own languid state. It might be true that she was falling ill; bat she felt no fear. Only if it were so, it seemed a little hard that she should have been sent away; that she should not hav« been permitted to remain and rest upon a cot lire otbers, some of whom were yet there, some of whom had gone forth to the free air—living or dead. Ah, how many hands she had folded, and wished they were her own! The sun shone brightly on the fields growing green again in the mild spring atmosphere, brightly on the brown mountain sides, brightly' on the flowing river! The brightness of the landscape was dazding. One glance at the clear s£v was enough to blind her. She walked on with drooping head, and thought of the sodless hillside graves of yesterday andyesterday’s yesterday. She had grown so used to death in the past mouth that it held no farther terror. Her head was heavy, and her ideas seemed oonfused. She hardly knew what she meant to do. The doctor’s words recurred to her at intervals. “Get out of this region as quickly as Steam will carry vou. If you want to come back in a week or two, all right. But 11 hope the worst will be over then. Fresh eases are getting fewer every day.” She kept on her way down toward the village center. Th? greenness of the fields and Hie glory of the springtime’s earliest yellow bloom swam past her as she walked. The picket fences seemed to sway; there was even a suspicion of movement in the very plank sidewalk she trod. , She thought seriously about this, as the houses came closer together. Over the village hung a shadow that no sun might conquer. The shadow of the plague that swept life after life before it, and darkened alike the threshold of the humble and the prosperous. was oppressive. Scarcely a wagon moved along the spring-soft roads. Scarcely a hoof clicked against an occasional 6tone. The stores were nearly empty. The postoffice had a few seriousfaced loungers in the doorway. - Miss Martello did not go in. She passed on, with head still drooping. The words that fell upon her ear were dull and meaningless. , “One of the nnrses from the hospital,” said somebody, “looks pretty bad, too.” Then she knew—without turning toward them —that, some common impulse, the men had uncovered one and all. The railroad station was bat a short distance beyond. She kept on toward this. A solitary engine switching empty freight cars up and down the tracks, was the only thing suggestive of life. The station was empty; the ticket-office closed. She •canned the time-table, and saw that no train would leave within an hour. She went to the door and looked across the tracks at the railroad hotel, which was also the chief house of the town. A moment later she had crossed over and was entering the parlor. She thought she would rest awhile and think where to go or what todo. The landlady’s voice sounded suddenly at her ear, like the voice of distress when aid is at hand. ~ “Thank heaven you’re hen, Miss Martollo!” ' Miss Martello turned and looked up questioninsly. It was not surprising that the woman knew her. Everyone seemed to know her. “What iB it?" she asked, forgetting her lassitude for the moment. < It was quickly told. A stranger who had It was a young lady, well-dressed, quite pretty, end without baggage. There was Something strange about It. Would Mias

Mutello take s look si the csss, and see it it could be the fever? Miss Martello followed up-stairs with aching limbs. She was toon weary than' she had realized. She took a bnef survey of the sick stranger, then she said aside quietly: *s-- | ‘‘Perhaps if yon will leave me alone with her. I can find out the trouble.*’ When tbe door bad cloaed on the other, she sat down on the bedside and took a feverish band in her own. “Are yon in pain?" ahe asked, in a very kind voice. A pair of beayv eye lifts were raised, a pair of beautiful sea-blue eyes returned her gaze ‘ :'7 , -. ■/ A voice of anguish—even of despair—replied to her. “I am suffering torment. I think I must have died and gone to ” “Hush!” tbe other stopped her with a gentle reproach. “Can’t I help you in some way? You can trust me. I am—l have been a nurse for weeks. I am resting now—off duty!" She had begun to stroke the feverish hands. Hhe ceased and laid her palm upon the forehead of the girl before her, smoothing back the heavy maes of auburn hair. It was no common fnee this before her—no common beauty! The pure complexion, the perfect features, the beaQtiful sea-blue eyea! Hhe felt her heart go out strangely to this unknown sufferer. “There is no trouble,” she resumed after a moment's reflection, Vno trouble so great that it may not be alleviated or at least sympathized with by those who have also suffered.”

The other flnng her hands up wildly—her beautiful little dimpled, childish hands. “There is no alleviating—no sympathizing with snch trouble as mine. Only let me die—only let me die! I tried to die this morning. Ah, yon might as well know the truth! I drank poison and it did not kill; it onlv drugged me for a time!” “Ho—bnd—as—that?” Misa Martello spoke with long pauses between her words. “Poor child!" 6he said with infinite compassion. “I know what it is to wish to die. I know!” The other began to moan piteously. “If you know, you know. I am suffering so—and for no fault of mine. How could I know? How could be deceive me so?” “You loved some one?” Miss Mariello asked, softly. “And he was false. It is hard to love and to—lose. I loved my husband—and I lost him!” The beautiful face on the pillow was convulsed with pain for an instant. Its possessor sobbed tearlessly. “Hat my lover is not dead —not dead! He loved me —I am sure he loved me. But he deoeived me. He won my heart and yet he was not free. 0, God! To think of that! He asked me to be his wife —and yet he was already—married! But I did not know! How could I know? Off in another city was another woman—another who bore his name!” -Miss Martello stopped stroking the pretty, childish hand she held. Her heart seemed to pause, as if awaiting some fatal thrust. “Well?” she r asked in a voice that sounded to herself far-off and almost like another person’s. “That was all," the other moaned feebly. “That was all. A year—a long, long year I loved him; we were to be married. Then this news waa brought me. I thought I should go mad! For three days I bore it; I threw myself down on tlje floor in my room—and no one dared come near me. At last I got away—l came away off here to die among strangers. 0, why couldn’t I die?” Miss Martello made no reply. She sat looking away from the bed. Her eyes were fixed upon the tvlndow, where the afternoon sun shone yellow and tender. But her gaze pierced the glass and went far beyond —far beyond and far away beyond the mountain* walls.

Some time elapsed ere she spoke again. There was a great change upon her. She felt it herself and wondered if the sick girl felt it. It seemed as if a coldness had come over her and ehilled her to stone. She hesitated to speak. Her voice would sound dispassionate, perhaps unsympathetic. But at last she came to it. “The —the wife of—vour lover,” she said slowlv. “Did—did she love him, you think?” “0, I don’t know! How could she love him. He didn’t love her—he didn’t—” “How do you know” Miss Martello interrupted in curious breathlessness “how do you know he didn’t?® —— • “Why how could he?” The woman with the beautiful face and tangled locks of auburn started np, leaning on her elbow as she cried ont this wondering thought. Then she fell back weakly. “A man cannot love two at once. And he loved me!" The woman with the pale face and smooth black hair, and dark-circled eyes, bowed her head for a moment. “No,” she said in low acquiescence, “a man cannot love two at once. There is but ■one love. * •••*••• * And you did not know that be was married. Did be ever—did he speak at all of her—of this wife whom he did not love?” “I have not seen him 6ince,” the other moaned. “I have not seen him since. I shall never-never see him again." Miss Mortello’s face had grown still whiter. “Don’t sob so,” she said. “Is there—is there no hope for yon? Do you not think the—the wife will separate from him legally? You could marry him, then." “My religion forbids," the other checked her sobs, “my religion forbids. I am a Catholic. But there is no hope, even of that. She loves him, I suppose. Iheard she had found out some time before. I heard a good many things, but 1 don’t suppose they were true.” “You don’t know then how she looked or whai kind of a woman she was? She probably was not as beautiful as you, or he never would have stopped loving her.” “Stopped? He never loved her. He swore to me the day. I found if out. He never loved her!” Miss Martello spoke np sharply; her words ran together and were of piercing quality: “Don’t say that! In heaven’s name don’t say that!” - The sea-blue eyes regarded her strangely. “Why. what is it to you? Miss Martello arose and walked away from the bed. “Ah, indeed,” she Baid, having grown very quiet again. “What is it to me?” She stood a moment at the window looking ont. then returned to the bedside and resumed her seat. “What would you like me to do for you?" she asked. “Can I get you anything?" “No hing! Only let me die.” The beantifnl face bnried itself in the pillow.” “I don’t want to live any longer. They told me I could live it down—but I can’t. “Are you quite sure,” MiRS Martello spoke very calmly, “are you quite sure the wife would not desire a separation? Are your religious scruples stronger than your—your love for this man?” “0, it isn’t only myself. My family would never*hear to it—never. They would disown me.” “Then”—Miss Martello’s voice Held a faint scorn—“then the only thing is for the other woman to die, I suppose, and leave The place vacant for you. Your religion w <vnAllin't tel ’ Wuulu uut twjn v tv tunt . “O, I never was so wicked. I never conld wish for anyone to die—anyone but myself."

“WIIJ you tell me the name of your lover! Burely you see you can trust me." “His name u Marshall. Lawrence Marshall. 1 * . ... — t±r “His wife’s name was Agn® B ?” “Yes. How did you know? Did you evei live in—” “I knew them once— a long time ago. Hajras good to her. And she —she worship&PlTfiffrxHe bad a fickle nature. H< left her alone and went to another city. >Occasionally he came hoiue on a visit. H« wrote her constantly. Then * * * sh« found it all out. She heard about the girl he was in love with. She cast him out oi her heart, She knew she would neveT gel over it—she would carry the load to hex grave; but she gave him up. He does not know where she is now. If he told you h« did, he lied. * * • * is not an unkind woman. I think she would sympathize with you. I think she does. * * * Two wrongs do not make a right. If you wish, I will tell Agnes Marshall—when 1 see her—that you love him more than she does; that he loves you; that she will be doing a womanly part to set him free.” Silence-ensued, broken only by the sobs of the other. t “Tell her so, if you like. Tell her I (lid not know. Tell her I tned—to die!” “1 will tell her,” Miss Martello answered, dreamily. “I will tell her—all” Hhe did not stay much longer after that. She went down again and tulked with the landlady, arranging that everything be done for the comfort of the girl upstairs. “A runaway,” she explained. “A lover’s quarrel. Do the best you can- I think I shall have to go back to the hospital. She may have to stay a day or two. It is nothing serious or contagions. her illness. I will Send word to friends of hers.

She left the woman somewhat relieved; left the hotel and passed back to the railway station, where she entered the telegraph office and wrote a message; “Alice is ill at the Willow House, this town. Take core of her as yon would have heaven judge you. A. M. will never see or trouble you again. You can make the matter legal at your pleasure.” When she had paid for the telegram she passed to the door and went out into the light of the setting sun. She spent the night at the hotel, sitting throughout the evening with the sick stranger, who was hardly stranger now. Alice was the name. Alice Farrington, successor to Agnes Marshall in Lawrence Marshall's affections! Miss Mariello spoke cheerfully to the girl. “If you love so deeply, and are loved in return,” she said, “time will bring recompense. True love is mightier than all else —even death!” And Alice Farrington fell asleep, faintly comforted at least. Late the following afternoon, Miss Martello in the stillness of the hotel parlor heard a voice—the voice of a new-comer standing in the hotel office across the hall. As she heard it, she roße slowly and with trembling limbs, and dragged herself to the window, where she might stand looking out and so. avoid the possibility of her face being'seen. A moment later, the landlady hurried in and caught her arm. “He’s come; the young lady’s sweetheart.” Miss Martello seemed swallowing something. • , . . “Take him to her,” she said in a frozen way, which the woman was fortunately too excited to observe. “But first let me go and prepare her. Keep him in the office. I can slip upstairs ahead. I do not wish to see him.” When she had spoken a word of counsel to Alice Farrington, she did not linger, but slipped into her o'jvn room which was opposite. The transoms were open over either door. She heard his footsteps in the hall. They sounded to her, as, she fancied, footsteps Of the sheriff sound to the criminal who waits to be led out to death. She heard the door across the hall open and close; the glad sobbing of the other woman, the love-words that he was uttering. Then 6he fell on her knees and covered her ears so she should not hear.

“Death,” she said, “this is death! Yet, betteT that only one should suffer, than that three be tortured.” ~ « She remained kneeling so a long time. The afternoon passed and darkness came npon her. Some one came and knocked, but she had locked the door on closing it. She was safe. When it had been dark a long, long time, she heard the voice of the landlady. “Miss Martello. Ain’t you coming down for some supper? The young folks have had theirs and taken the train back to the city.—Thfer’re not gone half an boon” Miss Martello arose weakly and opened the door. Her brain was whirling, throbbing. Her face was burning; her hands icy. “They are gone!” she repeated vaguely. The woman answered volubly; “Yes, and the young lady left good-bye for you, and I was to tell you she said she guessed it would - come* all right by’n-by, and she hoped to have you visit her when she was married. She said She would write to you.” “Yes?” said Miss Martello. She put up her hands and straightened her bonnet, which had not been removed. ‘T think I wiit take a cttjy of tea, " she said, “and then go up to the hospital. They may need me.” There was a-strange scarlet in her thin face. Her dark eyes looked unearthly. She drank the tea in haste, and started out. She knew she must be ill. She could not walk steadily; her limbs were weak, her head swam. Nausea overpowered her. “Back to the hospital,” she said oyer and, over as she walked. “Perhaps I have done wrong. But there is only one to suffer. And I was strongest—the best able.” A spring rain nad begun to fall. The wind had risen and blew fiercely in her face. She staggered on in the darkness. Sometimes she heard voices; his voice, the voice of Alice Farrington, the words of the woman who kept the hotel. “. Left good-bye for you, and I was to tell you she guessed it would all come right by’n-by. and she hoped * * * to have you visit her when she was marrieds” T - She staggered on blindly through rain and wind, and fell exhausted at the hospitaldoorway. Some one brought a light and looked down upon her. It was the head doctor. “Great God!” he cried. And she had only strength jto jnurmur faintly: T “I have come back. You must take me in!” • • • * * * * Somebody says: I know the rest. She lay ill for weeks. The doctor nursed her back to health and they fell in love and married. Alas, no! Snch things happen in stories perhaps, but it ’ was different in this case. One night, toward the last, when the fever had burned out and her strength was ebbing thereafter, she asked for paper and pen and wrote these few words: ’ --±._ . “Be happy. I may have done wrong, ldid it for the best” - “Agnes Marsh Martello). ” They were intended for Alice Farrington. Then she fell asleep; and when morning came the sunlight shone upon her bed and found her still sleeping.—a sleep that, should not be broken. But Lawrence Marshall and Alice Farrington were happy.