Rensselaer Republican, Volume 19, Number 11, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 November 1886 — LOVED TOO LATE. [ARTICLE]

LOVED TOO LATE.

BY W. H. S. ATKINSON.

CHAPTER I. “A Itttle knot of blue. • A ribbon blithe of bu". It tills ipy dr tint with sunny gleams— Tha httie kt:ot i.f blue." It all happened long ago. So long ago ♦hat Ido not oare to remember how many weary, lonesome year* have fled since then. And yet I am not nn old woman by any j means—not past 30 yet; only, I suppose, j the litne drugs so heavily sito'e those two summers of “long ago.” 1 lmrdly think, if you look ever an closely and upon ever so i good a map. you util lx* able to find the village of White River. It is such an inwtghiiieant place, and any way, its name has liocu'chaiigrd since the days when I knew it. I don't suppose there ever was, or ever will be; anything very remarkable about the place itself. It was not even a pretty village; there was nothing about White mver-te-mahe—it endurable, jaxicpt the water. And theie was plenty of that, for the ionimonplaee village is built at (lie point where the creek also known as While Stiver) empties its shallow waters into I>ake Erie. Northwestern Ohio contains plen'v of pictuiesqna country a few miles inland, but for some distance back from ihe lake sboie the scenery is flat and uninteresting. Then the village is ao very ordinary mid common, and the .majority of the people am so plain and so dull that I don ij-t ally know how I ever concluded to go there, ten years ago, to spend a summer vacation with my old Aunt Phcebe. Rut I did. and the days spent by mo at White River then and afterwards included among them the happiest of my life—and the saddest. Folks used to say I was a pretty girl in those days. I know I was plnmp anil shapely, and I am sure I was not absolutely homely. Perhaps I was even as the folks said —pretty. I know that Bi.ly Harrington said even nicer things than (hat to me, and indeed, though I was “really and truly" rather a inodest gill caring very little for what most folks though! of me, there was a time when I rather liked Billy to make those pleasant remarks to me. Of course you will want to know who Billy was, that I should have a peculiar interest in what he was pleased to say to ine. Well, Billy was one of the rising young men -of our city, and it was commonly reporied that he would one day marry me. Billy and I thought so, too, in « quiet sort of way, although there had been no formal engagement. And vet, though I liked him so much, I do not think I loved Billy, lie was handsome and ©lever, and he was very good to me, yet I rejveat, I did not really love him. When I went down to White River it was understood that Billy, who had a pressing invii.dion from my Mint, should come up for two or three days at a time w henever he could manage lo leave his business in the city. Without this understanding I would uol have/gon'e. A* I said before. While River dullness was almost us be arable, llad it not been for bathing and boating, with occasional hoits from Killy, I think I should have been constrained to pack my trunk and depart before I bad been there two weeks. I am someihiug of a musician, that is to say, I have a fine musical ear, and hare studied harmony under some of the l est in America. For this reason i l have usually fought shy of country churches. I can stand the long prayers, the poor elocution,- and the prosy sermons indifferent choii6ters singing in four separate keys, while an amateur organist ■ Acoompauies them on a wheezy organ in a fifth, my devotion takes a back seat, and my agitated nerves come tp the front. So, Sunday* after Sunday, I never went to church at White River, though the village boasted of two churches. Rut the Presbyterian minister, who was a personal friend of my aunts, would give me no rest until I promised to go to chnrch, which I at last \ did. I determined, however, to go late so as j to escape the musical, or unmusical, part of the..service, aud the Sunday after I made my promise found me on my wav to chnrch about balf-au-hour after all the other worshipers. As I neared the church I bea>d the last verse of a hymn sung, and I congratulated mvself on having timed my visit so well; for, I thought, “surely now the sermon will commence." As I quietly entered the church, and took a seat near the doorway. 1 was both astonished and delighted to hear the notes of a piano, as skilled hands played over some difficult bars, which proved to be the prelude to that sweet, sacred song of Gounods, “There Is a Green Hill Far j Away," The rendition of the piece by the singer was perfect. And the singer? Ah! j how have I wished that 1 had never heard or seen the singer! How often have s I regretted that I did not persist in my resolve never to enter a country church! But since I did go to church and did hear the song, I may as well continue my story. The singer there was a man with a rich tenor voice. When he arose from the piano I could see he was tall and awkward in his movements, while his face at that distauce looked |>os:tively ugly. But, for my part. I could forgive his homely features aud awkward carriage after that exquisite song, so exquisitely 6uug. Naturally enough I asked Aunt Phoebe some questions about the singer. “Oh.” said she, “that's Russell—Tom Russell. Yes, he's a pretty gotod singer for this town to produce, and all the folks who come here from the city rave over his voice—but he doesn't, amount- to very much; a shopforeman up at the brass- works, Xbelie ve.", Next evening Tom Russell passed the house, gTimy aud dirty, clad in a suit of overalls. Just then he looked like a man who ©ould do nothing remarkable, and, to tell the truth, I should have passed him unnoticed, even after having heard him slug, had not my aunt pointed him out to me. I suppose at home such a thing would never have entered my head, but in dull and monotonous While River anything by way of a change seemed desirable, and so I made up my mind t bat l wanted to become acquainted with Mr. Russell. On the following Saturday evening I saw Mm go into the minister's bo use,-toad I trotted down after him. Of course an introduction followed, and then I did my

best to strike up an acquaintance, fl had ] to do my best, for I found Mr. Russell very shy and reserved. Still, 1 thought I j could “draw him out," and more tbi\n that, 1 thought I should rather like todraw him out.” For, notwithstanding hiis shyness, | there was something pleasant and more i than ordinarily interesting about the man. 1 Of comae 1 cared nothing for him »S a man (for one thing, be was twelve'or fifteen years older than 1)—only as a musician. It would be so nice to have him eonie up lo the house sometimes and while away a long evening "u(A till MBgtflg. Well, that night was the beginning of j onr acquaintance. At first 1 found il very .; difficult lo induce Mr. Russell to come lo the house, but soon he did not require to ( be asked, aud his visits boome ' quite j frequent. Once 1 went for aboatride with him. - I lie understood the piano thoroughly, and ; his singing was perfection. Although not by any menus a brilliant conversationalist, 1 he was wfdl-ivrtd and thoughtful, aud, | when he did say ttpylhiug, somehow one ■ always re me inhered it. His father had charge of the little sqnare ! lighthouse at the end of the pier, and once j or twice when Ttim lit tLe lamps for his father we went np itito the lighthouse , together. And, ns time went by. I found that 1 did not truss Billy very much. • # « * • • Ono evening, Tom (he would not let me : Call him Minin' Russell) had spent the i evening'at the honse. ns he often -did. Ho j Was not just hts usual self, for he did not j sing at nil. He played over a few selections j from Chopin and some of Mendelsohn's “songs.” 1 lmd always preferred that ho should sing and play what he pleased, so I I never selected anything tor him. Up to ! that time lie had never once sung a “love- i ; song,” But on this evening, when it was ! I getting near his usual time for leavings he i song to some sweet music of his own com- ! posing, Tennyson's “Bong of- Love and Death.” Then he closed the piano. As u.snal 1 invited him to come again. “Yes," he said; “I will come again, but on one condition. Esther, I am a man — though but a workingman—with all of a Juan's feelings arill~T@pltnti<>ns. I have ; spent every other evening with you, now | for over a month. The result is what I j might have expected, had I slopped to consider whither I was uniting, jI, who have ticrer loved a woman before* ! love you. For hie it 14 too late to think of j regret, or to wish I had never seen you. | The mischief,if it is mischief, is.done. I j love yon.” lie Lad taken my hands in his oWnflnd | was looking right at and through me wi;h J his honest gray eyas. Ah. if he were nut ] so poor—if his work did not make him so j begiimed and uncouth—and then there was Billy, whom I had' forgotten a good deal of into. No! It could not be, it wras impossible. "Mr. Bussell (how I recollected the JUtfiter now), you are very good, but 1 never thought of this. 1 like you so much, but not that way (how stupidly I was talking), and then there is—there is—Billy— Mr. Herrington. I mean.” “Then good-bye,” he said. “I think - 1 have done you no harm; if anyone is hurt it is myself, with only myself to thank for the damage. "We wilf be good friends, if yon will permit, but I cannot come and see you—at least, not just yet. Ton have been very kind to me, and I -shall, never forget you. Miss Braitbwaite.” ' Ami that night, for the first time in my life, I cried myself <0 sleep. I was sorry for Tom Russell; I thiuk I was just a little bit'sorry for Esther Brail hwnite, too. Nop I didn’t imagine that I loved Toni Russell, biit-I’ am safe, quite sure, that I did not love Billy Herrington. Billy came np to White River a few days afterward, and I did not care for his society one hit. -On 6 evening, shortly afterward, while Billy wns out rowing and trying some fancy movements w ith his boat, he upset, and, being a poor swimmer, w as in great danger of being drowned. Tom Russell, grimy as usnal, happened to pass while going home from work, and, seeing the accident, at once swam out to Billy's rescue. He reached him just in time and succeeded in keeping his head above water until more help came in a boat. I watched the > whole affair from tlie beach, and. if I must tell the truth, I was a great deal more anxious for Tom than for Billy. But of course 1 was going to marry Billy—l had as much as told Tom Russell that—ami so I felt that I ought to thnnk the man who saved his life. The next day was Sunday, and after church I waited, on purpose, for Tom, when I thanked him in a clumsy manner for his bravery. “That little thing was easily done,” he' replied. “ STTI had-To think ot was that he was the one man who will make yon happy. 1 hope you will both be happy,” he added. Still he seemed to have left someihiug unsaid. He hesitated, aud I tried to help him. “If,” I said, “thero is anything we can ever do for you. please let me know.” “You enn do something for me now, nnd do it alone,” he answered. “Yon have a blue ribbon around your neck. When j first saw- you you wore the same blue ribbon and a white dress. That is how I always see yon in my mind—that is how I shall mostly think of you in the future. Will you give me that ribbon?” The ribbon held a locket given me by my father. Unfastening the ribbon, I gave it to Tom Russell, with the locket. “I should' thank you. but I cannot. Good-bve,” he said. And as he spoke Billy sauntered up. Billy was angry. “What do you mean.” he exclaimed, “by gossiping with that fe-ilow? And making him presents, too! I shouldn't wonder if you go, down on the pier next, and flirt with ihe sailors!” “Why, Biliv, are. you crazy? That is Mr. Russell, who saved your life. The least I i could do was to. thank him. ” " *'l offered the fellow money,” said Billy, “If he doesn't want it. let him go without. It isn't necessary Uu you to thank him. Give these fellows an inch and they will take an ell, every time. You grill oblige me by not speaking to M inter Russell again.” After we returned to the city Billy and I had another quarrel on the same subject. Since then, for the whole year, I have not spoken to Billy Harrington more than three | times. • '* "XT’ • • CHAPTER XI. *A little knot of blue. A love-knot strong and true, ■Twill lio’ii mv heart 'till lUe shall part— That little knot of b ue.* A year after the events I have recorded. I paid another visit to White River. It was the same old sleepy village, it’s inhabitants following the same old “trivial rounds” and “common tasks.” I went'' there because Aunt Phcebe was sick—or thought she wasj-and took a whim to send for me to keep her company. Do not . imagine that this is an excuse and that I j really went then with the desire to see any : one in particular. I did not. I was still, and had been for the year that had past, a common, every-day girl—a “society" vouug lady—with plenty of friends and lots of engagements to keep me busy and my mnd occupied. My lasting quarrel with Billy- Harrington had been more the result of stubbornness and spunk than for any sentiment. I entertained in regard-to the direct cause of it. One thing it proved to me—that neither BtHy nor I cared very muoh for each other.

And yet we might have been married. Hundreds of couples mamr end live tolerably happy lives who think less of each other than Billy did of mo or lof Killy-. My folks were sorfry—his folks were (sorry that we quarrelled, and I was sorry, too. sometimes. • L Quite often I thought almut Tom Russell. Rut when I did so it was with feelings; akin to pity for the poor fellow, l-niied nlive in such a miserable place ns White River: For X knew that if Tom Russell chose to cast his lot in some larger place he couid better himself in many ways- He had tola me that be meant lo leave White River when the old folks should no longer need his care. Until then he intended to stay by them, for he wns their only child end, as be said, thero were none who loved him so well as they. Tom Russell was one lof those quiet, self-denying heroes of whom the world takes little notice, but who nre heroes none the less. 1 think the | tirst time 1 sow Tom, qn my second visit to I B bite River, I appreciated more thoroughly his true worth and sleiling manliness. I For the year that had elftpsed hnd made ! more than nn ordinary year’s difference in me—it had brought with it that turning- ! point when I passed entirely from girlhood Ito womanhood. Ono year ago tho’ chief end of life, to me, had seemed to be merely pleasure and amusement. Ni>w, I could place a truer nnd better estimate npon life ! and its purposes, and I think looked mote I seriously npitta everything. And so jt came to pass that when I saw Tont-Ro§sell wending his way to church with liis aged mother leaning upon his nfm, the true sense, along with a due appreciation, this thorough manliness came to me all at once. I no longer seemed to think of his grimy work and his dirty overalls, no longer noticed the angular limbs and aw kward carriage; I only saw before me one of nature’s noblemen—a man with n great sonl yearning for the grand and tli#dueautifnl, yet content to [live and labor in the narrower but holier rut of duty. And that morning I heard no -discords ns tho country choir sang John Keble’s morning hymn, for my thoughts were of Tom Russell, as those words fell upon my ear—--Thu trivial round, the common task, “— •*" VHt) f umltti attwe wadt to ink IP-tm to tl.-ny uuraulvus, a road. _ To bring ns daily nearer find. Then when Tom sang his usual Sunday morning solo my old interest awakened, and I think it has never slept since. But ! nearly a week passed before 1 had an opI poitunity to speak to himJl One evening j as I sauntered down to the pier we met and I greeted each other. i “1 have to start the lighthouse lamps [-quite ,7,oft on now,” ho said. “Poor old ! father is growing very feeble, but be is j proud of his more than fifty years of service 1 at the lighthouse,.and wants to continue to the end. Bo long as the lamps are punctually lighted they don't care much at headquarters, nnd of course they will bo cared for as long as I can do it. Then there was a pause. “1 don’t know,” he continued, “whether I did right to address you as Miss Braithwaite. You know there was a Mr. Harrington, and you were going to—” “Yes. I know,” 1 replied, “I was going to marry him, but 1 did not, and never shall. Nor do I think I shall ever marry anyone. ” Another pause, nnd I went on. “Can’t you and I be friends, like we once were? AVou’t yon come aud see me?” Yes, ho would come. And he came on Sunday. It was a lovely but sultry evening, and he'sat and sang two or three of - onr old favorites, and then drifted off into some of the old-fashioned, simple Snuclay-sclicol songs that we have all, probably, almost learned by heart, at one time or another. “Do you know,” he said in a sort of apology, “I like these old hymns. On Bunday evenings I always feel good influences at work within me. Of course it may be sentiment —it doubtless is—yet it does me good 1 am. sure, and I imagine that it makes me a better man than I might otherwise be. On Sunday nights I feel almost like an innocent, happy boy again;, all that is best in my make-up forces its way to the surface, and I feel as though it were quite possible for me to be good always, and, at the end, to gain a place in heaven. Perhaps yon think it silly unrl childish for me to talk like this? If it is childish, I like the idea all the better, for we were really good only when we were little children.” Then w ith liis rich voice be sang some more of the old, old hymns—hymns which wearied me in my Sunday-school days, but which I now listened to nntil il, like Tom, began to feel their strange influence creeping over me. The midsummer twilight lasted until 9 • o'dodr; and then-Tom rose to tlmusJL light up for father, ” he said. Together we walked put onto the porch, which overlooked tlie lake. Though everything was so peaceful, the sky Wore a troubled appearance. It was partly covered with heavy, black clouds, tipped with burnished gold, while away in the west, where the sun had gone down, lingered great streaks of red. We stood upon the porch for several minutes in silence. Tom spoke first. “Esther. I can only come again on the old conditions. You have said there is no Mr. Harrington now. Will you accept t|ie terms?” What should I answer him? What could I answer him? Did I love him? Standing there, I almost thought I did, but—ah, if I Lad only knowp,then what I know now. I would not have hesitated long. As it was, I stood mutely watching the waters as they rippled upon the beach below, and answered not a word. “Good-bye.” he said at last, and turned to go. Some strange impulse took possession .of me. Why I yielded to it. I cannot tell, —- “Tom, come back.” I called, and he came quite close to me. “You may.kiss me once before vou go.” Onr house—my aunt’s house—was quite close to the water and very little more than two hundred yards from tlie lighthouse at the end of the pier, I saw the lights flash forth from the lau'erns and then went to my room. But the air was so . hot and heavy that I could not sleep, so I took a rocking-chair and sat by the open window. Boon I heard Singing. There was no mi-taking the singer, for there was only one voice in White River like that. It was Tom, who must have remained at the lighthouse, ...He was singing, more sweetly than evert some of the old hymns that had been on his mind all through the evening; and with this lullaby borne to me across the water through the still night air, I drifted off to sleep. How long I slept I do not now remember, but I was awakened by a terriffic peal of thunder. For an honr the storm of rain and electricity raged, and when it passed away I went to bed nnd to sleep. Asis mostly the case, a magnificent morning succeeded the storm, and by 7 o’clock I was walking down the r pier to woo an appetite for breakfast. On the pier I overtook old Father Rnssel. “Ah, Mis? Esther,” he said, “I’m come to look for my boy. He hasn’t been home all night. I teckon he was tued, maybe, and fell asleep in the lighthouse. But he won’t want to be late for his work, so I’ll go and rouse him: Half an hour slipped away and he did not come back,. Soon it was an hour, and I curionsly peeped into the narrow doorway of the light house. I called, “Mr. Bussell,” but there was no answer. Then

I thought that, instead of Tom, the old man must hnve come down here to take a quiet and undisturbed nap, sb I ascended to the little chamber, bent on satisfying my curiosity. . ‘On the stairway I fancied there was » strango odor, like scorched wood, afid as I got near the top of the steps I noticed that they wore blackened as by fire. I entered the small room, and there, his arm resting oh a little window ledge, and his head upon his arm, was Tom RusseH-^dead, On his knees, his head resting on the bench close by Torn, was the white-haired father—dead, too! -The lightning in striking Tom Russell did not disfigure him at aft; nor had the shock, on finding hi." boy dead, caused his father any physical paip. Father and son appeared to be peacefully sleeping, with the bright morning sunshine, reflected from the rippling waters, playing npon their faces. In that supreme moment I was fully conscious how well and truly Tom Rnssell had loved me. His last thought had doubtless been of mo, for grasped tightly in his stiffened fingers was the faded blue neckribbon which I had given him a year before. ••• . # * I don’t remember very much of that terrible morning, nor of several days that followed it. I know I cried a great deal when I was alone. “Prized too late and lost for aye”—it was the old specter of what might have been who nppeared to me then. I might at least have made a good man happy. I might hnve told him I would try to love him. I might have said that 1 loved him—for when it was too late I knew that I loved Tom Rnssell. No, it was no dreamy fancy, for nine years have fled since that Bunday evening when Tom Russell kissed me, nnd no man has kissed me since. I have the poor little blue nbbon which I took from his dear, dead hand, and when I am lonesome sometimes I take that out of its hiding place and kiss it—for Tom.