THE NOVELIST.

Mt Benger Mail, Volume I, Issue 44, 2 March 1881, Page 2

THE NOVELIST.

THE BTOBY OF A BROKEN HFART. " Clara, I am off to-morrowand Albert Cushman looked at his companion, a lovely girl of eighteen, watching the color fade out of cheek and lip, and a wild look of despair fill the beautiful eyes; and as he did so his conscience reproached him bitterly, for he knew that, not unsought by him, he had won the innocent heart of Clara Moore.

" You will think of me sometimes, dearest, will yon not?" and his arm was thrown round the trembling girl, and he drew her closely to him. " Ob, Albert! do not leave me. I cannot live without you !" she moaned, as her head sank on his breast. Albert Cushman was not a bad man, only a weak, self-indulgent one, given to gratifying any whim that promised pleasure for the time being, without giving a thought to the consequences ; but now he would have given all he possessed to have undone his last two months' wo> k. In the beginning of the summer he had come, an invalid, to Farmer Moore's little, brown, one-storied house, nestling under the oak-trees far up among the Catskids; and good Mrs Moore aod pretty Clara had nursed him faithfully, and the young girl, who had been educated far above her station in life, had read and chatted with him, and as he grew stionger had been his daily companion in all his rambles. He had grown very fond of the lovely girl, and had let her see it so plainly that Clara's innocent heart had gone out to him unresistingly; and during these sweet summer months the young girl had lived in a dream of perfect happiness, not thinking of the future. But the*idyl was over; the leaves were be. ginning to put on their scarlet and brown dresses, and Albert Cushman knew that he. could no longer linger in -—cnat-rpnefc eoftfetry before^lie winter snow should fall he was to be the husband of Eliza Vaughan, and he also had awakened to a sense of the bitter wrong he bad done poor Clara, in winning the deep love of her trusting heart, when all of his belonged to another.

" Dear Clara " he said, soothingly, to the weeping girl " dear little one, 1 am very sorry to have to go; but, dear, you must have known that I could not stay always : besides—there is another one, Clara and the young man hesitated and his voice faltered, for he knew that what he was going to say would be like a dagger thrust into the gentle heart beating so near his own—- " another one, Clara, who is looking impatiently for me every day now—and and—who in a few weeks will be my—my wife, dear." A low despairing cry of agony broke from the white lips of the girl, and distngaged herself from his encircling arm, she turned to leave him ; but he caught her hand. " Dear Clara, I am very sorry you feel it so mnch. I—l ought to have told before, I suppose, but we have been so happy; and then I did not think that you cared so very deeply for me. I did not really mean to deceive you, Clara; you will forgive me, will you not, dear V and he tried to draw her towards him again. 11 Don't, please don't," she said faintly, trying to free herself; " let me go home."

"Say that you forgive me then, Clara, he asked pleadingly, " and give me one farewell kiss." A hot flush dyed the young girl's cheek.

" I shall forgive you, Albert, much sooner than you will forgive yourself; but you must not ask me for kisses now." *' Clara, darling Clara, you will not leave me so? Just one little kiss?" pleaded he, and he clasped her closely in his arms. " 0 my lovemy love • moaned the poor girl, " how can I give you up ?" Albert made no answer, onlj held her closer, raining eager kisses on her white

' " I must go " she cried wildly struggling to free herself; " let me go!" and he did so, and Clara tied away, j " Poor little girl!" mused Albert, " I jam very sorry for her, but I never 1 dreamed she would take a little flirtai tion so seriously. She is a sweet girl, j and I am very fond ofher, but of courte JI can do nothing now. I wish to heaven I had never come here. What would Eliza say ? By jingo • wouldn & she rave ? Ah ! well, poor Clara; she is very young yet) she will get over, and perhaps in a year's time forget that I ever existed. I ought to hope so, I suppose j but, ah me!" and the deep sigh with which Albert Cushman ended his soliloquy was hardly an indication that such a hope was very deeply rooted. Clara did not appear at the tea-table; " she was not well/' her mother said, and the old lady's face wore an anxious look that went like a kuife to Albert's heart.

Will she not see me once more, just to say "good-by," the young man wondered the next morning, as the time for his departure approached and Clara still appeared not. At the very last moment she came, and standing by her mother's side in the low door-way she held out her hand.

'• Good-by, Clara. God bless you !" said Albert, tightly clasping her cold hand.

"Good-by, Mr Cushman," she auswered simply, never raising her eyes to his face, and then drew back the little hand, and Albert sprang into the wagon. Looking back, he caught one last look from the sad blue eyes of Clara Moore that haunted him for many years afterwards.

Grace Church is thronged with a gay and fashionable assemblage,'gathered to witness the marriage of Albert Cushman and Eliza Vaughan. A hum of expectation, and then, as the organ joyously peals forth the wedding march, the bridal train sweeps up the broad aisle and stands before the altar. A *enir^-ent.Qj^ftt 1 the bright December sun throws his golden beafoa upon the kneeling couple, as the venerable, white robed bishop solemnly in ■ vokes God's blessing upon them as man and wife.

The same golden beams fell upon another and far different scene. Far up among the Catskills, under no fretted roof and to no sound of pealing organ, but with the winds sighing a sad requiem through the leafless trees, a little band of mourners, with tears and sobs, bear Clara Moore to' her resting place under the old oak tree, where, in the long, bright summer days so lately gone, she had spent such happy hours, and there tenderly they lay her down and leave her to dreamless sleep. " See, Eliza, there is the little farmhouse where I spent last summer. Would you like to go out and visit it ?" "No, Albert, I think not ; but if you like to do so, pray do not hesitate." A.nd waiting for no further permission, Albert Cushman sprang from the carriage, and promising to be back in a few moments, hastened over the well-remembered ground. " I wonder if little Clara has forgotten me ?" he muttered to himself as he approached the house, which seemed more quiet than he remembered it before. His knock was answered by Mrs Moore, paler, and with deep lines of sorrow on her kindly face. "Do you remember me?' cried Albart taking her hand and looking into her eyes, "Mr Cushman, you have come to a very changed house," with quivering lips. " Poor Clara!" and the mother's voice was lost in tears.

Albert Cushman's heart stood still with a guilty fear. " Where is she ?" he whispered hoarsely.

" There !" and the withered hand pointed to the grove. With unsteady step he sought the familiar spot, and under the tree where he had uttered the words that had broken her young heart, Albert Cushman found and bedewed with tears of unavailing remorse the daisy covered mound under which lay all that was left of sweet Clara Moore.