The Rector of Abernthney. I shall never forget the timo upon which my eyes first fell lqion Abernth ney 11*11. Tim stage had .put me down by a nook in the highway. I felt weary and excited and seated myself upon the trunks which the driver had but a mo ment before unstrapped from tlio boot. But the weariness all left me, and the excitement changed to a quiet calmness as I gazed on the scene before me. Some 50 yards to my right, embowered among its little world of trees, stood the manse. It was a beautiful building; thero was no definiteness about the style of architecture—it simply seemed to be the creation of an exquisit jjaste. Thero was nothing about it suggutive of forti fication and defense, like those of tho Tudor or Elizabethan styles; it was nei ther of tho open Italian order nor yet of the modem pointed gothic. It was a sort of compromise between the latter, probably whut might be called tho An glo-Italian, and a manse peculiarly adapt ed to tho artificial landscape gardening in tho front and tho naturalness of the dußky woods and tho frowning hills in the background. There was no accumu lation of buttresses and gables and tur rets and such other conceits that lower the dignity of a house; truo, there were terraces, but they were ornamental ac companiments—they imparted an im posing breadth to tho whole group of buildings. Tho approach to tho house was through a broad, extensive avenue, lined on either side with a variety of trees planted with the most delicate attention to effect. I detected the silvery green of the white poplar mingling with the dark green of tho native oak, blended here and there with tho abnormal tints of the sycamore and tho purple beech. Tho gardens glowed with tho samo inspiration of beauty and taste. From where I stood my eyo could not criticise their regular ity, but I saw the outlined hedges of blossoming hawthorn, tho flowerbeds un circled with their ribbons of boxwood, and tho gay petunia flaunting beside the humble violet anil the bee haunted thyme. I felt that tho spirit which presided over that exquisite blending of nature and art was thoroughly an artist, not simply of the appreciative but of the creative school. He was more of an artist than the painter 011 canvas. The latter commences with a tabula rasa: his jiencil is subject to his will; he puts down a rock here and a brooklet there and works in his buildings and trees as taste may suggest or the laws of per sjiectivo demand. Then he can remove with the same facility with which 110 creates. The laudscapo gardener must accept localities as 110 finds them; he must conceal deformities and create beauties. Tho greater and more numer ous tho difficulties ho lias to surmount, the moro superior to tho landscape painter iB his taste and genius. Bewaro of the man, says some one, who loves neither flowers nor children. Thero is not simply a speciousness about that remark. It is tho embodiment of truth. We aro conscious of the weight and importance of tho caution, no mat ter how limited our experience. As I gazed npon tho sceno beforo mo I felt convinced that the proprietor of Ab ernthney Hall loved both flowers and children; that he was a gentleman of re fined sensibilities, a Christian and a scholar. I had come to act as governess to his children. I had misgivings in reference to my new home. My conjec tures of harshness and a want of appre ciation at times made me almost shrink away from duty. But I was satisfied and wholly at caso as I sat there upon the baggage which made tip the sum of my eurthly possessions. And yet there was much of regret con nected with it—not 011 account of my self, but on account of another. Wo read that William Morton, Kane's friend and companion, stoeil alone when he gazed upon the unfrozen Polur sea surg ing and rolling beneath him. Tho soul of Do Soto, when ho first beheld tho Mis sissippi, was not touched with half tho. grandeur and sublimity. The dream of philosophy was a reality; tho inductions of science a truth; the open Polar sea was found I Tho chilling grandeur of the snow, tho palaces of ice, ideal Alliambras glitter ing liko a thousand stars, the gigantic stairways of pearl, surmounted by tho brilliant arch of tho aurora —but, abovo all, tho oppressiveness of that hour of solitude and silence—stirreiT his soul with a thousand kindling emotions. But he stood there alone; 110 had no friend to realize with him that half awakening dream of magnificence; to whom ho could relieve his surcharged heart by speech; to whom ho could point out this or that object of attraction. The op pressiveness of his loneliness was like a despair; it was the struggle of longing and regret; he would even have grasped irreverently at tho ghostly hand of Sir John Franklin had ho como out from his icy tomb to stand beside him there. It was something of this regret that I felt in my soul. My mind went back to the closo, crowded city, with its sea of heated roofs, noisy factories, dusty streets and interminable walls of ma sonry. I thought of my sister Alice, with her dark spiritual eyes, brighter than the hectic flush ujiou her cheeks. Poor Invalid child! How I wished that sho was standing beside me, feeling tho same cool breeze fanning her brow and gazing upon the same changing vistas of scenery; standing beside me so that I could talk to lior! But she was not there, and the tears came into my eyes as I thought about it; tho silver abelo grew indistinct, anil there was a shadowiuess about the blossoming lilacs. I was soon started out of my reverie. I heard voices in the uvenue, and in a moment afterward Mr. Ashley reached out his hand to me in iiis kind way, wMle tho servants shouldered my trunks. I read my employer at a glance there was not much individuality necessary to do that. His temperament was san guine, with enough of tho phlegmatic to give him calmness and dignity. He was Still a young man, well formed and with that Intellectual expression upon Ills face which comes to men who rouil and think much. His lips and eyes betrayed his genial nature. They would have given 1 their impressions of geniality to a very child. Ho chatted gayly as wo walked to- ' ward the house. 110 did so partly to re lievo mo from embarrassment anil part ly because it was his nature. Perhaps he noticed, too, that I had been weep ing. I already felt as if I had known him for years. There was no atmos phere of mock aristocracy about hhn,' repellent because so self evidently put on. "Carrie," said Mr. Ashley, ere we j reached the hall door, "this is your new teacher." As he spoke thero came from behind a cluster of china lilacs a beautiful child of 10 summers. She had an abundance ; of dark hair, with eyes from the bril liancy of which nothing could detract but their shyness, while her figure was the very personification of grace. She sprang forward and caught my hand. t "Oh! I shall like you very much," she. cried. My heart throbbed wildly as I stooped down and killed her white forehead. "I am glad to hear you say that," I re plied. "Carrio is both warm anil impulsive in her friendships," said Mr. Ashley. There was a calm, steady look in his gray eyes. "I thought you were a groat, lank wo-! man, with such eyes as make ono shud der and with a molo on your nose," con- i tinueil the child. I laughed at that and patted her on tho cheek. JJr. Ashloy led the way into the sitting room. Carrio still clung to me. | Carrie still clumj to me. "What is your name?" she asked. "Jenny Gray." "So! I liko that. Yon won't make me call you Miss Gray, will you? But I mustn't ask so many questions. Only I want you to see Fred." She left the room, returning in a min- | ute or two with her brother. I was soon upon social terms with him. Ho closely resombled his father—had tho samo light, curling hair, calin gray oyes and ex pressive lips. He was not so talkative as Carrio; ho was moro thoughtful and reserved, more observing and less im pulsive. I was in duo timo thoroughly installed in my now homo. I had much to bless my heavenly father for; my lines were cast in pleasant places. The summer went by, and tho winter, in tho same quiet, steady, happy way. But Ido not intend to speak about my duties at Ab ernthney Hull, my tutorship of those lovely children, and how in beautifying their lives my own grew beautiful. It is with tho now awakening, the new El Dorado of my companionship, my inti macy with tho rector, that I havo to do. Ho was standing at one of the win dows on tho morning that Mr. Ashley introduced mo to him. no turned round, noodod gravely and then gazed out of jthe window as abstractedly ns beforo. I was not piqued at that—l inn not proud and (so my friends toll 1110) put too low an estimato upon myself. Though Ms survey of mo was not a leisnroly one, I know that ho hud already divined as much of my life and character as a less penetrating man would havo learned in a week. It took mo that long to engage him even in tho most incidental conver sation. He was a sedate, even tempered man. He was often given to fits of absent mindedness, anil from this I learned that there was somo groat sorrow in his BOUI. It was only in tho pulpit that he proved himself moro than an ordinary man. He was an analytical reasonor, subject to bursts of tho most captivating oloquenco and strong in tho yearning for the salva tion of his fellow men. Tho light seemed to go out of his eyes and the spiritual glory out of his faco so soon as he de scended from tho pulpit. Few stepped into the aisles to grasp him by tho hand, they simply bowed their heads with the memory of the recently spoken words of truthfulness in their souls and a sort of sympathy for tho secret sorrowfulness wlp h raised him abovo tho plane of their companionship. But thoro camo a time when he took a deeper interest in me; when bis eyes neglect his book to follow me around the room; when ho would meet me with a nosogav, or ask mo to stroll with him through the gardens. I found him a moro ugreeablo companion than I hail supposed him to be. Ho would como out of that half dreamy lethargy in which ho seemed to sit and converso as if he thought and felt like other men. I must say that he even became commu nicative. Ho spoke less reservedly and less spasmodically. At first I conversed, anil ho listened, but by degrees and un consciously, as it were, our positions be came reversed. Then it was that I stood upon tho confines of tho now El Dorado in the world of thought. It was some thing grand to sit at his feet, a quiet, impressible pupil. I must say it sooner or later, and so I will say it now. I loved him! Yes, warmly, fervently, passionately. I did not know whether my love wus recipro cated, neither did I care. Tho knowl edge of the deep love in my own heart was enough for me to dwell upon at soy One time. To be sure, his eyes at times warmed up with a beautiful light, and he would exhibit the most earnest solici tude for a temporary ache or illness, but beyond this I.observed nothing. He did not speak of love. What I had no ticed might havo been merely occasioned by his strong friendship for me. I was one day reading Goethe's "Dich tung und Wahrhoit" (Poetry and Truth). Mr. Jackson observed the work in my hands. "Is Goethe a favorite of yours?" he asked. "Very much so," I replied. "His works have never been faithfully translated, and least of all the one you are now reading. It is not even second handed. It is what Mrs. Austin called 'a bad translation of a very bad French translation.' Two elements enter into every translation—tho author and the translator. Thus, Hoole's 'Ariosto' is nearer to Hoole than to Ariosto. So in Pope's 'Homer.' The Greek is nothing, the Englishman everything. Transla tions havo been called pressed flowers. If you want to enjoy Goethe in all his freshness and fragrance, you must go tc the original. In no other way will you bo ablo thoroughly to appreciate him." "Do you understand German, Mr. Jackson?" I asked. "I have been told that I am a perfect master of the languago. I havo Goethe's works in my library. You must study German." Well, I mastered German. Tho study was a pleasuro and a recreation. I caught tho inspiration from tho very lips, as it were, of Goetho and Heine and Schiller. I learned, too, the truthful ness of Coleridge's definition of genius— that it consists in carrying on tho feel ings of the child into matnrer years. Men of truo genius give themselves up to the first simplo impressions of com mon things. They aro content to won der and smile and admire, just as they did when they wero children. It is tho opening of tho heart to all sweet influ ences. Wo are not called upon to write poetry for angels or sulnts, but for men—for men who work and think and suffer. Ho who is to photograph humanity must at least bo ablo to stand on a common level with it and by his many sympa thies enrich his special experience with all that is universal. Poetry is tho mu sic of truth, and let it come through what medium it may it is alwnys mu sical while it is true. But that literary feast also became a "Liebesmahl." To conjugate the verb "to love" in that rich, full, sonorous dia lect was less easy than to givo it real ity, an active transitiveness. I learned to love the German, but Mr. Jackson, the rector, more. Well, timo brought with it its changes. The invalid Alice died. Sho is waiting for me beside thoso over shining gates. Mr. Jackson became moro and moro en deared to his people and to me; his moodiness went away from him. Fred grew toward the staturo of his manhood, a kind, sterling, tractable child, while tho angel Came grow still moro beauti ful to mo in that childish truthfulness which will light her to tho grave. To conplo her name, tho memory of hei virtues and the consciousness of tho god liness of her lifo with tho tomb was to rob tho latter of all its sliadowineas and dread! At last it caiuo ns it was to be. Mr. Jackson spoko to mo of love. It was on a cold, starlit night in March. We were standing by one of tho broad windows, looking out upon tho landscape, which was beautiful still, though clothed in the dreariness of winter. "Jenny," 110 commenced half sorrow fully, "I am about to say something that may lower me very much in your esti mation, but I cannot help It. It has been in my heart for muny weeks. It has wrapped it, liko tho landscape before us, in all the chilliness of winter. Wheth er what I may say will bring sunshiuo and spring, or leavo mo still standing an Ishmael in this desert of my life, I can not tell." Ho pausod a moment, and I thought I heard my heart beat in that stillness. I had a consciousness of what was coming. lie paused a moment, and I thowjht I heard my heart beat. "Go on, Leonard," I Baiil. "Let me be Ilagar to you." "No, no!" ho cried with considerable vehemence. "You must be more. You must be my Rebecca—my Leah!" "I will be anything you wish," I said. I was surprised at the calmness with which I said that; I was not surprised that I was thoroughly happy. He took me in his arms and kissed me passion ately. "We love each other, Jenny." This was said BO slowly, so measured ly, that it caused me to look up into his face. "Wo have loved each other for a long while, Leonard. lam very, very happy! How could you possibly lower yourself in my estimation by such an avowal? How I wish that words of mine could restore the summer in your heart" ' 'lt may never be, dearest Jenny. I am like a blasted pine upon a dreary heathi a Pariah, more of an outcast from liii own soul than from tho world without, In this hour you will curso me, Jenny, just us I shall curso myself. In this hour I may soar your heart just as mine hot lieen seared, turn it to stone, just as mine has boon turned. It is tho hour of my sin, and I shrink away from the con sciousness I havo of tho purity of your inner lifo. Jenny, I have loved you long and well. The passion swells my veins with fire while I speak. My companion ship with you has taught me much much of hope and faith and love. "God does not creato the intelligent mind with its powers und faculties fully formed at the beginning, with all the principles of truth apparent to thought, and all the elements of experience in folded in its consciousness. He creates it infantile. He makes the very com mencement of its being dependent upon others, and then ho leaves the forces that are lodged in it and that are innately prophetic of a future to bo unfolded, trained and matured by the action oi other minds, manifested in speech or books, by the exerciso of thought, by the ministry of experience—above all, by contact with effort and disapjiointment. I have learned more by my companion ship with you, by the action of your mind, than by effort mid suffering and experience combined. But why should 1 speak of this? I have told you that I love you. That is very sweet. What I have to add is very, very bitter. Jenny, you can never bo my wife!" His face was very white. There was a dull, icy glare in his eyes and a percepti ble shudder passed over hiin. Perhaps we were alike affected and alike manifest ed it. I felt a sudden chilliness in the air, and I caught at tho window hangings for support. I did not speak for a little while. Then taking both his hands in mine and looking steadfastly into his faco I said: "Leonard, what does all this mean? Why can I not be your wife?" Ho took my arms and made mo put thein around his neck. Then ho said, in a low, husky whisper, "Jenny, I am married!" One quick, passionate embrace, one long, burning kiss, and I was alone. I seemed only conscious that tho rector had staggered across tho room, out of tho door. Oh, tho wretchedness of that hour! I never thought that one's heart could bear so much and yet not break. I felt tenfold more wretched, more unsatisfied, more sick and tired of lifo and the world than I did when they laid a beloved mother in the grave and later still the invalid Alice. There were no tears in my eyes. It was a grief too deep for tears. I crept up to my chamber, fright ened at my own ghostliness. I prayed for strength that I might endure, for patience that I might wait, for lifo that I might live! I cannot say that I was afraid of her. Now I was able to account for many tilings about the rector that had seemod singular to mo. His frequent absence from tho parish; his sullen moodiness; his alternate warmth and coldness toward me. I was certain that he loved mo very much—warmly, passionately. Thoso words that ho had spoken had long been burning in his soul. Thoy must havo found vent sooner or later. There aro some things that tho heart must either bo relieved of—or burst. Well, months went by and tho winter sot in again. Mr. Jackson ceased to be attentivo to mo and even avoided my so ciety. It required a mighty effort. I could read it iu his melancholy eyes and in his more than common restlessness. In part I felt thankful for the course of action he had adopted. While it made mo admiro him all tho more, it also gave me time to fortify my own soul and rec oncile it to its first great sorrow. I have an incident of another night in March to relate. It was not a clear, star lit night, though. It was a dreary, win try night, wondering whether it should relent into the capriciousness of April. A disagree *Jo rain was falling, one of those wretched compromises lietwecn snow and sleet. I was sitting alone by the fire, my pupils had retired to bed, and Mr. Asliley had gone to the adjoin ing village. Suddenly tho door opened, and thero entered, preceded by a gust of wind al most visible in the mistiness, a young woman. Sho walked straight up to tho grate and held her hands over it. neither speaking nor looking around her. It was this silence that made mo feel so un comfortable. A chilliness crept over me as I gazed upon her; it was not tho chil liness of tho rain, but the chilliness of dread. Sho was scantily uttired, though a heavy blanket carelessly thrown around her had in a manner protected her from tho storm. Her hair was disheveled and very black. Her faco was ghostly white, and her eyes dull and ghastly, like those of a drowned person when they are found open. I cannot say that I was afraid of her. She seemed perfectly harmless, nnd there was an air of refinement about her that told of better days. "It is cold," I said. Sho turned around and bent her oyeft upon me—no, flashed; in-fore tlir-y were so icy, but now how they blazed! "Who said it wns cold?" she asked fiercely. "I did,"l replied in a mild tone, though I wns conscious that I trembled. "You, eh? Well, it's nothing to you t>r to mo If it is cold I Wlio inakea it cold? It is u nice night to those who never get out into any night at all! How bright tlio fa cots in this little holo Hlazn on the hearth and warm the pictured wail! Did Canipliell say that? Well, there are no 'pleasures of hope' for me—l havo no hope. What makes you stare at me so} But I oughtn't to speak so gruffly; you are a woman and may help me. Tell me, do you think mo crazy?" I did not answer directly. It required an evasive answer, and one so framed that she could not detect that it was such. I still kept my eyes upOn her, and said quietly: "Who said that you were crazy? Tako a chair. I want to talk with you." "Ho! ha! ha! Just like I answered, you awhile ago. Well, I ain't crazy, though they say I am. I have just broke out of the madhouse. Ah! lam a good hand at stratagem! There now, send me back!" "You need not fear me. X havo no reason for sending you any where. You can stay hero. You are no more crazy than I am." A warm light came into her eyes at those words, and with a little persua sion I got her to lie down on the sofa, where sho soon sank into a slumber. My thoughts wcro varied as I gazed into that face, pale and careworn, yet beautiful still and framed in with its wealth of raven hair. My lifo had been a lifo of toil and struggling and suffering. One by one my "relatives had passed into the shadowy tomb, and just then there was a great sorrow brooding in my heart, but I felt thankful that, amid all, God had still vouchsafed unto mo my reason. A prayer went up in that lone, quiet room; the wind still howled dismally without, but there was a calmness in my heart. I parted the hair from her white forehead, and there were team in my eyes as I watched her low, childish breathing. She remained prostrated a week, sub ject to attacks of insanity that at times really frightened us. Mr. Ashley tool- as much interest in her as I did, and th children often stolo up to her room dur ing the daytimo to ask how tho strange woman with tho whito faco was, just as if tho faces of other women were not white. In a week from tho night upon which she camo to Abernthnoy Hall she died. It rained on that night, too; it rained on tho day wo buried her; it rained on tho day she was married and no doubt on the (lay sho was born. So had been her lifo, always listening to the "fitful sigh ing of tho rain!" The rector was absent during tho time our strange visitor was sick. He re turned on the evening before she was buried. I heard him coming up into the study. The crazy woman was lying in her shroud in the room below, with a calm serenity upon her face and with a fow choico hothouse flowors looped among her dark curls. The kind hands of little Carrie had done that. The rector was somewhat startled when ho beheld me sitting in the study instead of Mr. Ashley. He, however, reached out hiß hand quite cordially. "You Beemed troubled," I said. "I havo much to trouble me, Jenny," he said sorrowfully, "yet I am still thankful that God gives me strength to boar it all. You havo been writing?" "Yes, I was writing to yon. It is not necessary now. You are wanted to offi ciate at a funeral." "Is it possible? Any of tho parish ioners dead?" "No, it is a strange woman who died hero—a crazy woman." Oh, how wliito his face grew! He caught at the table for support. "Died where?" ho asked huskily. "Here, in the house," I replied won deringly. "Sho is lying in the parlor, arrayed for the tomb." He looked at mo for a moment; his eyes grew very much like hers in their vncant stare; then ho took up tho lamp, forgetting that ho was leaving me in the darkness and passed down Btairs. I fol lowed him, impelled by a thought that made mo shudder just then becauso it thrilled my veins with n sort of pleasure. Tho rector was kneeling beside the corpso, kissing the cold lips and mur muring, "Oh, Elsie! my wife! My beauti ful one!" Again that thought flashed through my brain. She was indeed tho rector's wife, and the thought would sooner Bhapo into a certainty. There was a choking sensation in my throat, but ere I could turn away the rector saw me. Hemotioned me to his sid<\ but without getting up from his knees. The rector u< is kneeling hcsldc the corpse. "What did she tell you?" ho asked. "Sho told mo nothing about herself or tho past. I heard you call her wife." "Yes, she was my wifo. Sho is at rest now, and it is better for her and for me. No prayers need lie offerod up for a soul so kind and so good as hers was." He said nothing more just then, which in a manner surprised me. Ho rose up, folded his nrniH and gazed steadfastly into tho fuce of tho dead. A scalding tear fell upon my hand, Jde seemed to havo forgotten that I was near him, and CASTORIAi for Infanta and Children. 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MQOf&v \42.S® $3.50 . f 3 2.00 ,ASFFNLADIES #2.50 (W #2.25 i&L f #1.79 * If you want a fine DRESS SHOE, made In the latest styles, don't pay $6 to SB, try my $3, $3.50, $4.00 or $5 Shoe, They fit equal to custom made and look and wear as well, If you wish to oconomlzo In your footwear, do so by purchasing W. L. Douglas Shoes. Namo and prlco stamped on the bottom, look for It when you buy, W. L. DOUGLAS. Brockton, Maes. Sold by John Smith, Birkbeck Brick. TALES FROM TOWN TOPICS. Ofl year of the most successful Quarterly ever published. More than I,<>(>(> LEADING NEWS PAPERS in North America have complimented tins publication during its first year, and uni versally concede that its numbers afford the brightest and most entertaining reading' that can be had. Published ist day of September, December. March and June. Ask Newsdealer for It, or send the price. 50 CGnts, in stamps or postad note to TOWN TOPICS, 21 IPesf 2Hd St., New York. hri "i 'nt Quarterly is not made up from the current year's issuesof Town Tories, but contains the best stories, sketches, bur lesques, poems, witticisms, etc., from the la. k H1- cr * . 1 unique journal, admittedly M most complete, and to all IJIKN AND \\ OTi I.N the most interest ing weekly ever issued. Subscription Price: Town Topica, por yoar, - -14 00 Tales From Towa Topics, por year, 2.00 Tho two clubbod, - - - 0.00 51 ot V Toi ,cs senl a inoathfi on trial for X. B.—Previous Nos. of "T.M.US" will be r mptlv forwarded, postpaid, on receipt of . 0 ceuta oueli.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers