Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 32, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 April 1875 — LOVE OR PRIDE? [ARTICLE]

LOVE OR PRIDE?

BY JEAN BONCŒUR.

Great purple shadows swept across the hay-fields ; the distant landscape was becoming indistinct, and the moon was slowly rising in the heavens. After awhile the twilight deepened into as much of darkness as there would he in the summer night, and silence fell upon the earth. Then a girl stole noiselessly across a small garden, and stood beside a gate that led into the adjoining churchyard. A yew-tree spread its dark branches wide above her, but the silver tints that were slanting down upon the tall gravestones and bringing out the delicate lines of the old church spire touched also her white face, making it whiter than usual. She did not start as a tall figure approached from the farther side of the churchyard. She had evidently been expecting some one, and when she heard the words—- “ You are out late, Miss Jervis” — She quietly answered — “I was waiting for you; I wanted to say goo*<J-by to you before you went away.” “ I thought you had done that already,” replied the young min, with some bitterness. “ Not quite,” returned the girl, wearily; “ vbu were too angry for me to say it as I wished.” “Had I not the right to he so?” he asked. “ Ever since I have been at Shelford , you have been deceiving me. I believed you to be as earnest as 1 was myself, and now”— He paused. ‘‘ And now?” Her voice had a sharp ring in it as she repeated his words, as though she would give denial to what lie had said; blither face looked like stone in the moonlight, white and immovable, as she continued—“l did not understand that you could really be in earnest, otherwise I might have told you before what I have told you to-day.” “ You did not believe in me —you looked upon me as heartless — as a deceiver. You do not believe in me now.” “ I do.” “ What do you believe?” he asked, impetuously; “nothing good, or you would not give me the answer you have given me.” “ Everything good, except the knowing what is good for yourself. I want you now to say -good-by to me without any anger in your heart. The day will come when you will perhaps bless me for what I have had the courage to do to-day.” And she held out her hand. The young, man hesitated. “Is there no hope?” “ None.” Her voice rang low and clear through the summer air. Again he hesitated, then, suddenly taking both her hands in his, he bent down and kissed her for the first time. She gave a faint cry, and disengaged herself. “ We part in peace.” And with these words she turned and fled, not looking back, or perhaps she might have repented her decision. Once in the house she sat down in the empty sitting-room, made light as day by the 1 moonbeams. The old aog rose as she came in, and when she threw herself into a chair lie laid his head in her lap. There came a sound of clattering of plates in the kitchen on the opposite side of the narrow passage, and her mother’s voice sounded sharply, giving her directions about supper. Presently she entered. “ Where have you been, Ally? How ill you look! and you’re all shivering! Come into the kitchen, child; Anne’s gone off to bed and there’s a bit of fire in the grate. It might be winter instead of midsummer, to feel your hands.” Alice rose mechanically. Bhe walked dreamily into the little kitchen, where her mother drew a chair to the fire for her. Presently a ruddy, good-humored-look-ing youth entered, saying: “ Let me have my supper here, mother. The fire looks pleasant, though it is sum-mer-time.” Mrs. Jervis opened the oven door and took out a covered dish thathad been kept ■warm there. Ahce, watching her as she placed it on therable and laid a knife and fork beside it, instinctively ropsed herself and, taking a jug from the dresser, went to

the cellar to draw some beer for her brother. It was a relief to her to perform this menial service. It seemed almost an answer to the question she had been asking herself over and over again since her conversation with Mr. Scrope in. the morning. She was even glad that all around her looked so commonplace, so poot—poorer and commoner than ever to-night. And a bitter feeling rose in her heart and made her almost indignant that some people should be so much more favored, in a worldly point of view,ithan others. When she went to her room, instead of undressing, she opened the window and gazed out toward the yew tree under which she had parted with Mr. Scrope, and then suddenly untwisting her long hair she turned to the looking-glass, not with any feeling of vanity, but in order to find what had so attracted him. It was more than a handsome face that answered back her gaze, one which showed an amount of earnestness and intelligence not often met with. Of this she yvas no judge herself, neither of the continual change of expression which Mr. Scrope had begun by curiously observing, and ended by being thoroughly interested in. He was passing the long vacation at Shelford, reading and fishing, and had made the acquaintance of William Jerris on the banks of the river, and through him, whom it was a condescension on the part of Mr. Scrope to notice, of Alice herself. Alice perhaps understood the footing on which they stood better than her brother, and the innate pride in her nature caused her to accept it with reservations. She felt the gulf between them and measured it by the world’s standard. Therefore when Mr. Scrope made liis, somewhat startling oiler she, in spite of her surprise, was not unprepared with her answer. And nout that she had given it, she asked herself if she had done right. Mr. Scrope was an only son; a brilliant future was before him; a world of which she knew nothing was familiar to him. Could she, who was accustomed to the littlenesses incident to circumstances somewhat above actual poverty, move with propriety in circles accustomed to every luxury? Would his relatives, so far above hers, accept her and her belongings? She auswered “No.” Mr. Scrope had argued—what matter since it rested with him to give her place and position in the world as his wife? But that she knew would be a separation for him from all former associations, and her own unfitness to move in her lover’s sphere would mane her a clog upon the life of him to whom, before she knew it, she had given her heart. Such had been the train of argument she had pursued, and she had struggled free from the prospect open to her, not without pain, and had dismissed it as a dream of beauty that had naught to do with waking hours. And now But it was over. The morning rose and she went about her tasks as usual, perhaps even more energetically, since she needed an outlet for her pent-up feelings. Mingled with pain there came a sense of happiness in the knowledge of Mr. Scrope’s love. To have possessed it—nay, perhaps to possess it still—carried her into another world in which, however, she must always be alone, since all that had passed must forever remain her own especial secret. • n. Mr. Scrope went abroad; and after a time he returned home to begin his career. Alice Jervis pursued her homely and monotonous life. She grew quieter and graver and worked more diligently. She believed that she had decided rightly as regarded Mr. Scrope’s happiness, and the sacrifice she had made for his sake made her feel that she had a right to be interested in him, and she lived in the excitement oDseeipg his name in the papers and in gaining every particular of him within her grasp. She smiled when she read his name among the presentations at court or noted his presence at the court balls! At such times she looked down at the shabby dress and the poor appointments surrounding her and wondered what sort of an appearance she would have made in other circumstances. At length she saw another announcement. Mr. Scrope was going to be married. She turned pale and put down the paper. And yet she had expected this announcement—had looked for it day after day. Nevertheless, she felt a strange pang which as long as he was unmarried she had escaped. , Down by the river,, where the waterflags hoisted their yellow standards among the reeds, and where the forget-me-nots blossomed along the banks, she sauntered, listening to the murmuring waters, whose burden was “ Past, past, past.” Even Rover appeared to understand it, for he looked up in her face and whined. ‘ The great gray bars of clouds spread across the setting sun and blotted out the sunlight; but still Alice paced up and down under the pollard-windows untH the evening was far advanced. Night was setting in around her; the light and life were over. She had scarcely realized until the present moment how present Mr. Scrope had been in her every thought. The morning after reading the news in the papers another very startling piece of information came to her— She was an heiress. By one of those strange chances in life that are so common nowadays her mother’s brother, beginning life as an artisan, had amassed a princely fortune. And he had left it between Alice Jervis and her brother. And Alice Jervis sat down and wept bitterly. To her it had come as a mockery. Her lot in life was cast; what did she want with money now ? In due time she read of the marriage itself; she cut*it out of the paper and placed it in her pocket-book. It was all over. , • m. Three years slipped away. Three travelers entered a hotel in a little foreign town. One, a beautiful woman, a litUe past her first youth, whom one knew in a moment in spite of the improvement that had taken place; but her brother was 1 scarcely to be recognized. A tutor and three years of foreign life had caused a marvelous transformation. The third, an elderly lady, was not mack altered, ex-

cepting that her dress was handsome as heart could desire. They took their places at the table d l hote, and exactly opposite to them sat a lady and gentleman. The latter looked wearied, and his short, black mustache twitched with the curvings of the restless mouth beneath it. The lady was fair, fashionable and vivacious. Alice Jervis started. She would have moved, but William Jervis, all ignorant of past events, had exclaimed: > “ Mr. Scrope!” Mr. Scrope looked across, wondering at the friendly recognition from an apparent stranger. Then his eye fell upon Alice and he started, but quickly recovering himself he bowed, saying; “Pardon me if I did not at first remember you.” Mrs. Scrope had turned in delight toward William Jervis. “ The first English voice, excepting my husband’s, that I have heard for three weeks. Ido not understand Italian, and have consequently had no one to talk to but Mr. Scrope. Can you imagine anything more dreadful?” Then, turning to her husband, she said: “ You must introduce me to your English friends.” “ Mrs. Scrope—Mrs. and Miss Jervis,” said Mr. Scrope, his look riveted on Alice. The face that had never left his memory in spite of his marriage had grown to a higher beauty than ever he had imagined to be possible. And, though he knew it not, it had come about through her striving after an ideal that she deemed worthy of him. Stilling the pulses that throbbed so painfully, Alice conversed with him as with an old acquaintance, and yet the remembrance of their parting on that moonlight bight was vividly present to both of them. Mrs. Scrope talked incessantly, the more especially as William Jervis was a lively talker, with a frank, half-jesting, halfdeferential manner thathad something very winning in it. Alice Jervis watched Mrs. Scrope narrowly, and wondered why Mr. Scrope had married her? And instinctively the answer came, because he did not care very much about her, but found that the alliance would add luster to his career. There was something paradoxical in the idea, but it passed with her. She had argued that if Mr. Scrope had really cared for herself, to care much for Mrs. Scrope was impossible. So they met and so they parted, in the little out-of-the-way Italian town; and Alice had seen - Mr. Scrope once more. Was she glad or sorry? The Scropes returned to England—-the Jervises remained abroad. .And they heard nothing more of one another, rv. Exactly why she had come there she could not tell. It was more to gratify an old longing than for any definite reason, though she had persuaded herself into the belief that she had business at Shelford. At any rate, upon the anniversary of that day, eight years ago, when she had waited under the yew-tree to say good-by to Mr. Scrope, Alice Jervis stood with her hand on the wicket-gate, quietly reviewing her life, and once again asking herself whether love or pride had had the greater part in her decision. The branches of the yews were waving gently, the roses wore rustling their silvertipped leaves, and the white moonlight fell upon the graves. Still with her hand upon the garden gate she looked toward the church, trying to believe that the years had stood still, and she was there waiting for Mr. Scrope. She was turning away when a dark figure approached her and a well-remem-bered voice said: “ Miss Jervis!” “Mr. Scrope!” “ Yes; I was waiting for you. I wished to see you before you went away.” Almost her own words in their last interview. She looked up at him half fearfully. It was so strange to see him there at that hour of the night, and an almost superstitious awe crept over her. “I wanted to tell you that you have ruined my life so far. I heard that you were at Shelford. I knew that you would he here and I have come to ask you if you repent the past, and are willing to atone for it.” Alice shrank back. “ Mr. Scrope!” was all she could say. “ The inferiority, if there be any, is on my side,” he said; “you have improved the past—l have wasted it. Yet the wasting of it I lay to your charge. I knew you better than you knew yourself. I wanted a wife who would understand me and would give me sympathy. You could have done this, and you refused it. Will you refuse it now?” Bewildered, and yet indignant, Alice shrank farther away from him. “ Mr. Scrope,” she said, “ I bid you go back to your wife. I bid you to repair the brilliant prospects you seem so wrongly to have marred.” “ I wish I could,” he answered sorrowfully. “My wife is dead, Alice, or I should not be here to-night. She died two years ago. You are hard and unjust, as you have ever been.” “Dead!” stammered Alice. “How could I know? I have but just returned to England.” She moved nearer to him; she held out her hand. ‘4 Forgive me,” she said. And their eyes met; and Mr. Scrope, looking down into hers, stooped and kissed the quivering lips for the second time in his life. —A Bakersfield man dropped into the Postoffice and wanted to know how much merchandise he could send in one parcel. “ Four pounds,” was the reply. Then he blandly said he thought he would send out to Arizpna four pounds of those red toy-balloons, inflated; but he had difficulty in getting out of the door in time to dodge a mail-bag.— Alta California. —Wah Lee, the Chinese Jay Gould, who owns two laundries in Philadelphia, two in New York, one in Boston, four in Chicago, one in Indianapolis and one in Pittsburgh, Pa., derives an income from the nine of $1,700 a week, or $88,400 a year. —lt costs less to take a good weekly paper than a diligent hen can earn in a year at the market price of eggs.