FOR EVER.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1915, 14 April 1880, Page 3

FOR EVER.

A STORY OP THE HEART, By tub Lath Larry Harbwood Leech ' Promise 1 ’ ‘ I do solemnly.’ ‘ For ever ? ’ continued the solemn broken voice. ‘ For ever,’ echoed the weeping maiden by the bedside. The wasted hands were raised over the heads of tbe kneeling figures; the pale ips of the dying woman parted, the tongue tried to utter a blessing, but all brightness faded from the eyes The woman was dead. Two young girls knelt at the bedside r, onstance Owen was the name of one, with sallow skin and large brown eyes, and Edith Ormond, she was called, with ringlets of gold floating around her fair neck, and whose head was leaning upon the shoulder of Constance, who had promised tho dying woman to he a sister, protector—mother even—to the fair maiden at her side.

The strong, fai’.hful, homely girl called Constance was an adopted daughter of the dead lady—one of those waifs of the street, whose only hope of life was in the charity of some te <ler hearted stranger. She however repaid her protector by a love and regard as filial as I hat of her own daughter, ar.d when upon her deathbed Mrs Ormond bade Con stance Owen make her the solemn promise recorded, tho h-ave girl not only did not falter, but whispered once more to tho stricken girl at her side. Ves, Edith, for the sake of tho love your dear mother gave to tho orphan will I love you better than myself—for ever.’ *#*->»

Two years passed—two years since Edith '■be beautiful and Constance the Brave had lost their heat earthly friend. The former had grown more lovo’.v even than the promise of the dawn of her radiant maidenhood ; the latter m- re h moly, larger-featured, in the fare, but with two years an added dignity of mien, a more intelligent light in the quiet, tender brown eyes, and force of character better defined in every movement. There came many suitors to Bonnybrook—so the ■ittle country seat belonging to Edith was o lied —but, so far, the little coquette did not pay much heed to of them. She was chasing the butterflies of fancy around that Garden of Eden first youth. But at length her beauty, grace, and perhaps high social position, brought one day to the gates of Bonnybrook one Dr. Paulding, a superior and rising young physician, who lived in the city close by, and when he had found his way to that pleasant country nook, somehow ha discovered p'-r.ients in that vicinity very frequently. Was it Edith’s fair face that made him take that blooming highway bo often ?

He was indeed fascinated by her bright, girlish beauty, and one evecing after he had been wandering in the gardens, under the moon, soft pleasant words must have been spoken, for after he had gone, Edith, with a flushed face, dashed into the room where Constance was awaiting her, and throwing her a'ms aroand her, said in a happy, tremulous voice—

‘O ! darling, lam so happy. He has told me he loved me.’

Constance spoke not a word ; Edith was held a moment to a beating heart, a soft kiss touched her forehead, and the next moment she was alone. ‘He loves me! He loves me!’ And Edith looked out over the gardens from which the dowa of night were distilling all their odors ; she gazed at the round, beautiful moon„and peop’ed the shadows with the image of the man who had first stirred her young life with the divine music of love.

A month after the pleasant confession had been made, Edith was called to the mountains of Vermont to attend a dying aunt, the only sister of her dear mother, and she had to proceed alone, as Bonnybrook would have lacked a guardian if Constance had accompanied her, Dr. Paulding’s duties utterly denying him that pleasure.

Constance was engrossed in her house duties, and saw but little society, save a few rustic neighbours, who only recommended themselves by their goodness of heart, and certainly not by the brilliancy of their wit or unders'anding. Once and awhile the doctor would ride out to Bonnybrook, as Constance told him, ‘ from the force of old habit, but soon it seemed that the man of medicine and science did not carry on the conversationwith the old ease, grace, and spirit. What had come between Constance Owen and himself? Something inexplicable. The noble woman found a strange, rare pleasore in the society of the gift .-d man : the scholarly man a sympathy with the large-hearted, intellectual woman, which he had never known in any of her sex. ‘ True,’ he said to himself, ‘ she is not beautiful; indeed, measured by the rules of beauty, she is positively ugly. But who can gauge the charms of a melodious voice, or define the tenderness of an houest, kindly eye ? And sue tno, mused in this wise ;—“ This Dr. Charles Paulding is a marvellously gifted man. What powers of language, what treasures of imagination he possesses! What a noble career he has before him ; and Edith’ —here she would pause and think of that clinging tendril, not as helping the growth of the oak, bat as drawing from its strength. Vet from all such thoughts as these her staunch and loyal heart would turn resolutely away—yet for all this her speech would not come as ‘ trippingly on the tongue ’ as in the old days, and ho would oftentimes finish a sentence in the middle of it. and then Pso himself in vague glances at the ceiling or out into the gardens. Oh, it was a dangerous time for both of these awakening hearts. But they glided on this treacherous stream, and seemed only conscious that the hours were sweet, and that the sun i-hone on the waves. There was no thought of disloyalty in either heart. He was above all a man of honour, and she of all else a loyal woman. Yet how hearts delude themse ves. In the very pride of hia strength Samson was shorn of his locks.

One quiet evening in July Dr. Paulding had taken tea at Bonnyhrook, and Constance —bis ‘hostess’ only, she called herself strolled down to the gate with him. His impatient horse was biting the rough old hitching post, and throwing up clouds of dust with his fore feet He had been kept there four hours, and he seemed more eager than his master to leave Bonnyhrook behind him. The doctor idly plucked some heliotrope as they strolled down the ro'e bordered paths, and mingled with the flowers some dainty mignonette and a pale bud or two of the tea rose. At last he place 1 the bouquet in her hands, and said dreamily—- ‘ Read the emblems, Constance—you who are a priestess in Flora’s beautiful temple.’ She quickly looked over them. ‘ Ah,’ she said, ‘you choose well, Sir Botanist. Here you have ‘ beauty in retirement,’ ‘constancy’ —that is good—and ‘I am not a summer friend,’ —that is better than a 1! But you flutter with your flowers nevertheless.

‘ Not you,’ he replied eagerly, almost tenderly, aud in a voice that somewhat fright eued her.

She replied almost coldly —although her heart was strangely beating and a warm unusual color was in her face: ‘My best friends will tel) you, doctor, that I am ugly and commonplace. Believe them, I beg of you, and do not let your imagination invest me with any charms.' Vic seemed all at orce to be carried away by bis passion. He leaned over her and replied, warmly, ‘ 1 say you are beautiful, Constance Owen. Ift el your beauty in my very soul.’ Bit he said no more. The face of Constance was a study; the flush that before had crims ned her cheeks died out, and she became ghostly pale. Her lingers, which had clasped the flowers, slowly opened, and they dropped at her feet. All at once t' e vrion of the dead woman seemed to present itself to her mind, and the trust she was violating struck cold to her heart. Was this the ‘ for ever ’ she had spoken ? She staggered and would have fallen ; the arms of I'r Paul ling wc re about her, but she waved him away in a moment with such a pitcou ■, despairing gesture that he obeyed her without a word. She only had strength to falter

‘4/0- and remember Edith,’ and she staggered back toward tbo house leaving him standing there, bent and trembling. She did not know how she reached her own room ; the strong woman ha I learned at the same moment she loved that she must sacrifice and renounce.

She stood for hours white and motionless, looking out at the sunset and the gathering gloom of evening, with wild thoughts chasi- g themselves thr ugh her brain, and a dumb aching part in her heart; every hope trailing in the dust, like those sweet flowers he had given her. the had laid her head after

awhile upon her hands, on the window casement of her room, and wept softly through the long, long hours, until she heard the village bell strike the hour of midnight. She had prayed and wrestled with her grief and agony, and rose up at length quiet and calm. She had yielded to duty ami her promise to the dead.

Somehow Constance Owen seemed to grow prettier as the months passed by ; there was some refining change which was softening her rugged features, and rounding every line of her stately form. The summer into antumn had flown, and still Edith Ormond had not returned to Bonuybrook. Her aunt had died, and letters came from time to time saying that ere long she would be home, yet she came not. Could she suspect the disloyalty of her lover ? It was late in the fall, when the woods had put on their pomp of glory, and the chill winds sent the fallen leaves through the valleys near Bonny brook, when Dr. Paulding rode np to the house and asked for Constance. She had only received him twice before since the summer evening, and had then contrived by womanly tact not to he alone with him—although she no longer doubted her strength. Constance, on this occasion, received her gnest alone. There seemed a strange embarrassment in his manner. After the first greetings were over, he said—

‘ Constance, I have much to say to yon today. Do you think yon can listen to me calmly ?’ ‘ Yes,’ she replied, ‘if it is upon a subject on which you speak ’ —and she added tremblingly—‘ to which I should listen ’ ‘ Both,’ he said. ‘ When first I saw Edith Ormond I was captivated by her beauty and girlish graces ; I thought I loved her.’

Constance would have stopped him by a gesture, but he begged her to listen—‘ for you can do so now,’ he said, ‘ in all honor and reason.’ He continued—

‘ I had never had my heart stirred by the full knowledge of love, however, until I knew you, and discovered the breadth of your sympathies and the womanliness of your character. I never respected yon more than when you rejected me, knowing I was the engaged husband of Edith. but Fate has been kind to us both,’ His voica was trembling with emotion. ‘ Bead the last part of this letter.

He handed a folded paper to Constance, who took it as one in a dream. ‘ From Edith 1 ’ she said. ‘Yes ’

The portion she read, ran thus—- * So you see, dear Dr. Paulding, it is better I should tell yon now that I have met one here —my cousin Eay—whom I feel that I love better than anybody in the world. I have promised to be his wife, and I am sure you wi l forgive me, for you are so noble and grand and all that, and I should feel. I know, that I never could fill worthily the exalted sphere of Ur. Paulding’s wife’— Constance could read no moie ; a mist gathered over her eyes, but this time a strong arm was about her, and a voice, deep and melodious, whispered to her ‘ Dearest Constance, will you be mine at last ?’ Their lips met for the first time in one long kiss of love, and her answer was—‘Yes, thine— For ever 1 ’