Rensselaer Republican, Volume 19, Number 35, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 5 May 1887 — THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER. [ARTICLE]

THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER.

BY W. D. S. ATKINSON.

i. Outside a large and comfortable reeidonee on tbe outskirts of n great city, a wild storm raged. Inside, a Homan sat lost in thought It wouldbe hard, even for mo with so much imaginative license as a story-writer, to sav what thoughts held this woman almost spell-bound before lha cheerful logfire, but the opportunity may be taken to gather something of her bisjory. May Worthington is no cbtkl; no one would ever thiuk of her as nnght but a good, thoughtful and experienced woman. She is only 23 years old, but her life has not been all sunshine. Indeed, her pathway has mostly led her along that side of the road where the f;hndows fall thickly. May Worthington was left with a brother only two years older than Lerself, before she waa 15 years old, to tight her way unaided through tbe w orld. May was clever, nnd l»y close application soon" fitted herself for teaching some special branches of study. She and her brother were well liked i>y all with whom they came in contact and never lacked friends. When May was 20 she lost her brother. No, he did not die. Sometimes she almost wished that he had, for then, at least, she could have spoken of him to sympathetic friends. As it was, she knew not whether he was alive or dead, and— if that were the only uncertainty! Not that what folks said influenced May in her loyally to her brother. He was still her brother, whatever the world might any. But then, she could not close her ears to what it dui •ay. and it hurt her, oh, so much. ~- Alter he was gone May fonud a home in the household of Mr. Paul Lawrence, os companion and governess to that gentleman's young step-sister. Mr. Lawrence and his young sister had also lost both father and mother. Hut the Lawrences were rich and knew very little

about the losing side in the battle of life. Yet they cherished kindly and sympathetic feelings toward lonely May Worthington, and both Mnnde Lawrence and her brother tried in ninny ways to innke their home a pleasant one for May. Mny knew this and appreciated their kindness. .for three years she had been with the Lawrences, daring all of which time she had been Maude's constant companion and warm friend. But 1 Paul, kind as he was to her in many ways, had never attempted to closely cultivate her acquaintance. Paul Lawrence was a very proud man—very cold and reserved; a man who did not invite confidence and who would not force

his acquaintance or friendship upon any. But one felt sure that his friendship once secured, would be worth retaining. He was one of those men with a calm ex'erior whose passions are none the less intense because hidden far out of sight. May Worthington had plenty to think about on this wintry night. Yet, somehow, they were stay-at-home thoughts, and after starting upon a short trip they always came back and stopped nt Paul Lawrence. Ah, well! Mny Worthington was only a woman, no more and no less, and shall we say that she was foolish or unwomanly in that she (almost unconsciously, perhaps >, loved unasked? She was not the first woman who has apparently wasted her love, nor will she be the last, and, somehow, it seems &b though they are oft-times the best of women who love where love is unsought. May Worthington had never disseeied her feelings or cross-questioned her heart and would, therefore, never have admitted that she loved Paul Lawrence. But she did. And just as her thoughts emerged from their day-dreams, and just when the least little tear of loneliness trickled adown her pretty face, there came a rap at the door. When it opened it admitted T -Paul Lawrence.

Paul was twelve years older than May, bnt he hardly looked it. and there was almost a boyish shyness in his manner as he said: '"“Miss Worthington. I wish you would take pity on my loneliness this evening and let me sit 'with you awhile. 1 don’t knowhow yon feel to-night, bnt 1 am particularly “bine.’’—the more so, perhaps, as lam all the time thinking about Maude, who is so soon to leave ns.” May bade her<*iskor welcome, and Paul drew a chair np to the fire. Mr. Lawrence did not permit the awkward silence to last very long, for, drawing his chair yet closer and with a very earnest look upon his face, , he went on: “May, Ido not know why I never told yon before, perhaps because I was hardly 6ure of it myself, but I love you and I want you to be my wife.” Not a word said May. “This is a lonely house and will be more so when Maude is gone, Stay and brighten it for me, will you, dear?" Silence again. , “You wish for a little time to consider, perhaps. Take it, if you wish. I am a quiet man, May, 'as you well know; Ido not wear my heart upon my sleeve, but I love yon, dear. Of that Jam now quite, sure.” Somehow, by this time Paul Lawrence’s chair was very close to May’s. Somehow, he held May’s two small white hands in one of his own. Somehow, May’s pretty head rested upon Paul’s broad shoulder, and, somehow, a brilliant diamond ring was slipped upon May s' fingerV “ And the storm outside stormed on unheeded. , Y g........ .Y ’ • A year has passed away, yet in that same cosy sitting-room and before vast-such another cheery fire are seated Paul Lawrence and—his wife. They are very happy, as Indeed they have been all the year. “You remember one year ago to-night, dear?" asked Vaul. “Yes, Paul. I shall never forget. You made me very happy then, and you have been so good to me riuce. Do you know, Paul, I sometimes wonder if onr love and our lives will always mn as smoothly as they now do? And very often I have asked mvself why yon married me, of whom yon realty knew, and even now know, so little." Aad for answer Paul twined his aatn around his wile nnd kissed her.' “1 have you May, nnd lam satisfied. I love yon and therefore trust you, I shall 4hnr]/e love you wud aitraye trust you."

Patti Lawrence’s love and trust had never yet been pnt to the test; he had no means of knowiug the strength or weakness of either, and he was doubtless sincere w hen he said that be would nhniyslore and mat his wife. Ten minute* Inter he had occasion to go nn stairs, nnd «i the enhance to his wife's tooui ho fnnnd n scrap of paper, dirty ami lorn, folded carelessly and addressed to “Mr*. Lawrence." <>l»entug it in a listless way, this is what he read; -Mayl wonder If you still care f«r me? It seems a lifetime since 1 saw you. lam so inis* eraltla. and I do so long to -eu you Just once. Give ine onS of the olfl-tlino kisses to-nlßlit.’ dear. I dare not show niy.rlf, so meet rat at H o'clnok mr as soon after as pos-tld*) by your earriagr-hmise. Pray do not let any one see you, neither give them, In any way, room for susplclon. < - Dick." If someone had struck Paul Lawrence a terrible blow be could not have felt more stunned. At flist. he was amazed.ltben grieved, nnd then angry; not with n darning, fnrions anger which would rage for a short limo and then spend itself, but n quietly intense, dangerous auger, which would smouldur and burn uulil it reached a white bent. A few moments before ho bad held in bis arms (ho ’Woman whom lie bad made his wife, whom be hud loved and honored —his first nnd only love. Now ho began to hale her. only began, because his hatred was of that sort which would grow in intensity. Tho first effects of tho blow having passed awav, Paul Lawrence did not lose Ins head. He did not propose lo act like an excited boy and spoil oveiything. He would wait and see the end—wait and know how unfaithful n trusted wife could he. And then—

Two hours nfterward Paul Lawrence had secreted himself behind some shrubbery within sight of his own carriage-house. From his hiding-place he soon saw enough to ]>ersuade him that, although he had a wile, her love was not his. For he lieheld that slender form enclosed in two Htrong arms; while, without any appearance of shyness or fear, his—Paul Lawrence’s — wife kissed, moie than once, the man with whom she had made this assignment. A few minutes passed away, and May entered the house by n door not often used in winter time. Her husband met her, bis anger very nearly al a white heat. “Where have yon been?” asked be. “To tho cairinge- bouse, Paul." “And why there?" May- was confused. She hnd not counted u| on meeting her husband so soon, nnd she told a lie. v * “1 have mislaid my pocket-book, and 1 thought I might possibly have left it in the carriage this morning.” Paul, of course, knew that bis wife lied, nnd she saw that Paul Suspected the falsehood. But she did not anticipate her husband’s next words; “Liar! I know whore you have been and what you have been doing. .See, here is the note he wrote you; take it, I do not want it. Let me think —you are my wife. I remember, we were married, and you are known as Mrs. Lawrence. Well, Mrs. Lnwrende, yon are a credit to your too simple husband.” “Ob, Paul.” begnn May, whose tears were fast flowing. “Don’t address me ns‘Pauf,” shouted the angry man. “I know lam your husband, but don’t speak to me or 1 may forget myself and strike a woman. Listen. We cannot shnre the same roof another hour. You may stay here and. I will go away—-or you can leave me here. Please yourself. You will’ have nil the money you need, but never let me see your cursed, false face again. Do you understand? Which way is it to be?" “Paul, you must listen.” sobbed May. “He said I should sav nothing to you, but—” “Curse yon! Dare you tell me what he said? Great Heaven, if I had not been a fool or n coward I should have killed you both, as I saw you together behind the carriage-house! Mention him again nnd. by the living God, I will shoot you right here! Say, quickly, who leaves this house, you or I?” May shivered nnd tremblingly said; “Paul, you are unjußt; but I will go away. It is your house, stay here. I thought I was too happv. Good-bye, Paul.”

She waited, unconsciously almost, for him ;o say a word. But auger, jealousy, and hatred had changed Paul Lawrence into a demon. Silent and unmoved he watched his wife step out aloae into the darkness, alone, to face ihe cold wintry night and the cold world. Vet, about midnight, Paul Lawrence remembered that happy night one year before, anil once a sigh escaped him. , ill. A miserable night. Rain and sleet falling through the darkness; gusts of wind rattling through the leafless branches of the trees. Outside, a woman— a lady well and warmly dressed, but, oh, so cold at heart, and so unhappy. Inside a darkened room and upon a bed a sick man —so sifk that, humanly speaking, he cannot live to see the light of.Jhe coming day.s The woman outside crept along by the wall of Ihe house and timidly peered between the blinds. She saw the man lying upon his bed, his life trembling in the balances, and by his side, closely watching with professional keenness, she beheld the physician. Then, ns she fancied the doctor raised his eyes toward the windowwhere she stood, she shrank away. Throwing herself upon the low veranda, near by, she sobbed aloud. “Oh, Paul, Paul, my love, my husband! Why did you not trust me, Paul?” And for-answer came nothing but'the moan of the wind aud the pitiless driving sleet.

Poor May, she was heart-broken. One year had changed her from a beautiful woman and a happy wife to a castaway. She had come to the old house..to-night, drawn by an irresistible impulse, just to see the place where her happiest days had been passed and then to go away and die. And now the longing was upon her, stronger than ever, to resume her old position as wife and mistress.

Why was she outside? Why was she not in that sick-room, nursing her husband—doing for him those many whict strangers, however kind, never think of? Heart-broken and sad, she had no pride; she almost forgot that Paul had sent he.JL away with a curse, and, to regain her old place in his heart and home, would have begged bis forgiveness on bended knee for the lie which, in her embarrassment, she had told him abont her parse. .She knew-that -Paul.must he terysick, but Apjf_siet she never suspected, or she might have eutered the house unbiddeD. As it was she only leaned her head to the side of the cold wall and sobbed. '• She was near the well-rememberd room, where Paul had asked her to be his wife. Some one was in there now. Sho looked in. It was only Hannah, the Lawrence's old negro nurse, and she was down upon her knees—praying. Poor Hannah, she was a faithful old servant, good and true as i steel. Like most negroes, she was religious, even though her religion was not very intelligent to herself or others. And she was praying—

“Oh, good Lord, bring back de poor missus. Let her come home, deaf Lord, an’ comfort Mars’ -Paul. Do. good Lord,

bring home my poor Mars' Pnnl's wife, for JeSns’ sake. Lord. Amen." And still, ns ahe knelt with her hands tightly clasped, her eye* turned upward nnd her body swaying to and fro, tho cplored woman crooned, rather than sang, a sweet old negro hyain; ■ Do 111110 < b do sheepfol' flat guard do xheepfoT bln. Look out in der glOomerln' meadows Where de bms night rain begin—bo he call to de hirelin' shops'd. • .«!'.. ■ *, "I* uiy sheep, is doy all come in f" “Oii, den," nay*do hirelin' shopa'd. “boy's some day's b’ack and thin,And some dey 's'po' ol' weiMai, But de ro*' day's all brung in." Den do masse oh de sheepfol’ Bat guard do sheepfol' bln Goes down in de gloorneriu meadows When de long night rain begin—8b he le' dow u de bn's ob do sheepfol!, __ Callin’ *of. "Come in, come in." Den up t'ro' de gloomerin' meadows, T'ro de col’ night rain an' win'. An' up t'ro*' do gloomerln' rain-pas Wliitr de sleet fa' piercin' thin, I)e jki' lo*’ sheep ob do sheepfol', Duy all comes gadderin' in.

The quaint words, sung ro pathetically, soothed the poor woman listening outside in the cold, wet night, and she, too, prayed: “Lord, let roe ‘come in’ to Pan'.' Ar.d, if that is not to be, then take me home to thyself. Lord; for I am so weary and so tired of wandering alone in this unkind world." May had not noticed footsteps approaching, hut as the last word left her lips a well-known voice broke the silence of the night. “May! Why, what in the world are you doing here? You are cold aud drenched through—nnd you are sick! What does it mean, May?" “Oh, Dick, hush! Let us go away—take me lo the city; Ibis is not my home any more." Hut, still standing in the rain, May told as much of her story as she cared to —as much as seemed to her necessary. And, under the nearest gas-lamp, (he man took from his pocket that evening’s newspaper afad handed it to May, who read—