The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 23, 1901, Page 11

THE SUNDAY CALL 11 T W AR\ = G220 By Lucr Hardy. [Copyri ay to the rd of ne mora. == I upon the sad tale nths ar ears that followed; th its harass' ts. in many re to bear than the loved ones are For how ma gerly newspapers f y chance account of ange returnin all thought dead.” eighteen years ut one word or token nd_even Minnie had bandon hope to ta > . t ho ha s¢ and comfort her in her desola- sorrow. “the child whose face its ae the young mother fore Minnte would widow; ané even he wishes of rela- submit to the out- ng, in her own hear: 1 some wild, vague hope [ 1t never meet our lad again un-' 1 " said the old for he believed young widow bereavement”; t in her heart story of “Enoch hed its many my husband s he shall at waiting for a stified sob, ter years had change h. the rector, had gently firmly years now the crew— word or_line e on board the that in that woman if you ung feilow hap- “I am waiting for Harry,” said Minnfe, flush on her cheek. he will never come again t to g0 to him.” sald the old man said no he and Miss Leslie to each other, it comfort to both of their darling safe in e before their call t to the love of nd of one brief nd the care and ed- - filled up was a sweet and by all the devo- r mother, and and as the d her dis- the pair) became fect companions as s sense of in- e old rector, laid to rest in the churchyard. de d her child lived on e which Harry had fitted i a peaceful round of 1 innocent occupations up the quiet days; until shock which comes suddenly realize Il so youthful in hers and mothers, are womanhood, and, Jing and being wooed. tor of the parish, 2 mable man, first told and desire that 3 her mother : bécome the mistress of his hume, as she was already of his heart, Minnie almost echoed the gossips' cry regarding her own early wedlock: and §12. Fferbert half smilingly reminded the mother that her daughter, if she married him at once, would be an older bride than she herself had been. Again, in_the second generation, the Jovers’ pleading overbore the hesitation of the elders. The rector was all that was good and estimable; he had been a fa- millar visitor in the Ainsiee household ever since his induction into the parish some four vears previously, and if his own Years, some thirty-two in number, were Jather in advance of his bride’s seventeen for “pearly eighteen now,” as Marian said), it was a fauit upon the right side, "and' another reason_ against delay,” as Mr. Herbert urged. Marian's father had besn but 24 when he had wedded a yet more girlish Fride. : “And you will not lose your daughter; ghe will be close by you still,” pleaded the Srospective bridegroom; so Minnie yiclded. The wedding was to be a village festival. The rector had become very popular with all classes of his flock. Mrs. Ainslie was greatly beloved by all who knew her, so the villagers roused themselves to do honor to both bride and bridegroom. A flower-wreathed arch spanned the en- trance of the village sireet, school chil- dren, clad in their best, lined the church- yard path along which the wedded pair must pass, each child armed with a bas- ket of flowers to scatter before the feet of the bride, “and, mmd, children, you are to scatter them before her, not to pelt her with them,” were the schoolmistress's wise instructions—counsels too often for- gotten by enthusiastic rice scatterers at many a fashionable wedding, when the luckiess bride and bridegroom are treated with a stinging shower of the grain aimed directly at their persons, often at thelr faces. The sun was bright, the day warm, the joy pells ringing merrily, “evarything ap- propriate for a wedding,” as the school- mistress remarked. Bvery inhabitant who could do so had flocked the church to be- lold the interesting ceremony; and tae village sireet looked lonely and desecrted, village, very dea a!ox;fi probably 1 xcitement than we; a stranger walked up it, and glanced moment the news which he had for soms 1t desirous of making some while past so dreaded. and yet almost expected to lhear, had completely un- corner of the nerved him: but now he remembered that Ro Wi o?\m.rl h called, !onlshot the most venerable nml - had a duty to perform. y darling, 1 have injured you enough y, he murmured Jmulonslely. ‘Heaven knows I wish I had never lived to return at all-as matters stand—but I the daugh- know your true, pure heart and 1 cannot neighbors. e grand ter, with whom the old man resided, had Jet you wrong yourself and an innocent !nm off to the church with all her chil- man by tlklna this step in ignorance,” o ren, but old Roger found the walk uphlll Bitter reflections surged in the mind ot rather a long one, and had wl-el%dflm- this other “Enoch Arden” ‘as he strode ited himself comfortably upon t 8 con- up the narrow lane which led to the vil- lage church; but amid them all was no hard thought of the wife who, as he be- lleved, was now taking upon herself vows to another. Nineteen years was an ab- sence which might well have tried the firmest consistency, and it was no wonder that the young widow had consoled her- self at last. Indeed, as he pressed on, Alnslle’s chief regret was that he must, by his sudden appeurance, shock and dis- tress the woman whom he still so devot- edly loved; first Inclination had been to turn away again on hearing Rogers “J Knew You &ould Come Pack to Me Jome Day,” venlent heap to await the return of theu‘d‘lpgs. but his sense of duty came to his ald, sightseers. “I be sure to hear all the news from Polly—she have a long tongue, like all the women,” philosophically reflected the old man. “You have gay doings here to-day, friend,” remarked the stranger, as he came 'up. “‘Aye. to be sure; it's the passon’s wed- din’ day, and Madam Ainslie, she's put off her mournin’ at last A sudden spasm passed across the bronzed countenance of the stranger. “‘Madam Ainslie—do you mean the lady who lives at the Knoll?” “‘Aye,” responded Roger, “I do, and a good, kind lady she is, as.us poor folks know well. 'Twas mostly to see her [ was a-going to the weddin'. Passon's well enough, but I've knowed Madam tne longest.” “And she—Marian Ajnslie—is going to be married to-day, you say?’ asked the stranger eagerly. Roger nodded. ‘“‘Marian Ainslie—that be the bride's name right enough. It's been cried out in_church these last three Sundays—" The stranger, a tall, fine-looking man, absolutely staggered for a moment, as if he had received a blow; then sat down by Roger's side. “What else could I have expected?” he murmured. “I was a fool to come here,” and a strange kind of dizziness seemed to_overnower him: Old Roger, half blind and wholly self- engrossed, did not note his companion’s egitation. ““There be fine doings in the village to- day,” maundered on the old man, ‘“‘a tea to all the childer and a dinner to the older folks. I be too old to go to thicky feasts, so Madam she said she'd send me a nice \bit of the prog at home. The weddin's going on now,” and Roger, re- membering the meal that was to follow it, awoke to a great vivaelty, “man and wife the friend of passon’s, who comed aver to do the job, is makin’ of ’em now —why, sir, vou do look bad,” as the stranger's ghastly face attracted even Roger's attention, “be you took {17 “No, I only hurried a fittle too much in this hot sun,” seid the stranger, suddenly rising to his feet with swift resolution, Harry—for the newcomer was no other than the long-lost sailor—had now_over- come his momentary weakness. For a “It seems actually cruel to appear in this way after the poor child has—very excusably—forgotten me and put another love in my place,” Ainslee sald to himself, “but it {8 the only thing to do, and Min- nie would be the first to say so. I will not_trouble her with my presence after to-day; I can easily get afloat again, and, nows, fate may be kinder in my next voyage—to Minnie as to me,” he added Ditte The litile church was crowded, but the stranger pushed his way in with an utter disregard of politeness and strode up the e. Before the altar stood a graceful girlish vision, which he recognized as that of his Minnie of nineteen yvears ago; he noted the same snowy raiment and veil, the same golden hair; was he mad or dreaming—had the long years which had passed left no trace upon that bright, smiling, girlish face; could the bride of to-day be so absolutely identical with her former self of so long ago? As he paused in sheer amazement he heard the soft tones of a well remem- bered_voice. “I, Marian,” began the bride, repeating the very words spoken on the. salf-same spot to himself on his own wedding day. “There is an impedimernt,” cried the stranger. Stepping forward, to the unut- terable horror and consternation of the decorous village congregation, who fully believed that a dangerous lunatic had come among them, but the next momeut lg_ woman'’s voice rang out clear and joy- ul. ‘“‘Harry, my own husband! T knew you would come back to me some day.” and iped around Li< neck 3 cious woman, wita all the bride's Leanty matured, rather than faded, was weeding tears of joy or his breast. Minnie, his Minnle. assuredly beautiful slill, though no longer the girl wife from whom he had parted. Indecd, as her hus- band gazed upon her now, he thought that the vears had rather added to her charms than robbed her of any, for the bloom of early girlhood had been replaced by a sweet and gracious dignity, a calm serenity of expression which only comes to these who have '‘loved, and endured. and been patient.’” But who. then; was this fair maiden in her bridal array. who was now gazing with widely dilated eyes upon the amazing spectacle of her mother —ordinarily so calm and composed—cling- ing passionately to the neck of the stran- ger who had, in this extraordinary man- ner, interrupted the wedding ceremony ? “'‘Our daughter, Harry, the child whom you never saw.” whispered Minnie; to whom indeed her husband’s return seemed less startling than to any of the other spectators—perhaps because, in her secret heart, ‘the fond wifc had never ceased to “hope against hope."” The old parish clerk, a very crabbed and matter-of-fact personage. now struck in with an admirable common sense remark. ‘‘Be this weddin' to be finished to-day or not—for it do be nigh 12 o'clock,” he remarked severely. Dawkins had his official pesition to con- sider, and was not going to allow orthodox church ceremonials to be thus interrupted by the abrupt arrival of folks who were ilégpoued to be drowned and dead years The officlating clergyman wisely. took the hint, and hastily proceeded with the service; in which the bride and bride- groom, albeit both somewhat agitated, duly bore their parts, while the elder cou- ple behind them held each other’s hands tightly, and felt as If they were them- selves renewing their own marriage vows, In the seclusion of the vestry, explana- tions took place, while they ;pgcmnl crowd without waited long for the re- appearance of the bride and bridegroom and the marvelous news of ‘“Madam Ain- lsllle's husband’s” return flew from lip to D. The joy at her husband's reappearance seemed fo have rendered Mrs. Ainslee in- eensible even to surprise. and she alone asked no questions regarding those nine- teen years of sllence. She had always cherished a secret hope that her husband ‘would return to her, and to-day this hope had been fulfilled; she had him back again. and this bliss swallowed up all other thoughts. It was rather to the eag- er ears of the rest of the party in the vestry that Harry Ainslie now related the strange tale of his adsentures since te had left nis young bride some nineteen summers ago. - Tt was all too true that the luckless Calliope had *‘loundered at sea,” but, as often happened in such disasters, a of the crew hai survived: Harry and two other men. These had rigged up a raft and been at '.zmith washed up on the shores of a small uninhabited island in the Pacific. Here they had remained for years, subsisting on game, fruit and fish (happily the 1islet contained several eprings of fresh water) and having also aved some few necessaries _from the hip's stores on their raft. Years went by without any hope of rescue, and Ains- lie was left the sole surviver of the trio who had originally landed on the islet, Ore of his companions had died very shortly after the wreck (from injuries re- ceived while in the water), the other passed away some years afterward, Thus Ainslie was left all alone and hers his recollections became a blank. Some rs after the loss of the Calliope the f a local trading vessel, driven out of her course by contrary winds, landed at the island in search of water, They found what they sought; they also found a man, clad in «kins like a veritable Rob- inson Crusoe, who hailed them in Eng- Ilish, but was unable to give any clear ac- count of himself, or to state how he came vhere he was. The long years of loneli- in this solitary islet had _told strangely upon Ainslie’s brain; and, by one of these curious instances of lapse of memory well known 't doctors, his mjnd had become a complete blank regarding the whole of his past life, * The crew of the trading vessel toek him off in their boat, and, when on board the vessel, the sight of the famillar nautical surroundings awoke remembrances of his old professional skill; whence his rescuers concluded he must have been an officer or captain of some wrecked vessel; but Ainslie_could tell them nothing of his own life, nor even recall how long he had 1 on the. island, In all other respects his mental faculties were sound, he eas- ily resumed the Rabits of civilization, and, when he was landed at San Franeisco, whither the trading vessel was bound, the tale of his romantic adventures attracted interest and he found friends, But the citizens of San Francisco had either never heard of the Calllope’s fate or had long ago forgotten it, and no onme thought of identifying the stranger with one of the passengers of a vessel “m ng” for over ten year “John Smith,” as he now called himself, gettled down to his work in a shipowner's office, a quiet and silent man, with the sad mystery of his own life ever pressing on him. He made few acquaintances and led an almost hermit existence, his one hops and prayer being that he might regain life. the knowl- His wish was answered by a sudden accident. Strolling round the docks one day he found his hand abruptly grasped by the captain of a Jately arrived English vessel. “Good_heavens, Ainslie, for you are Alnslie I am sure, where have you been hiding for the last ninetecn years? Wa thought the Calliope foundered then with all hands on board.” “Aipslie!”” The sound of his own name brought back in a moment all the lost past. Harry remembered all now, his wedding, his “last cruise,” the shipwreck —was all this nineteen years ago? Ex- planations rapidly ensued between Harry and his friend, a former schoolfellow and early messmate, who had recognized Ains He, In spite of the lapse of years since they had met. partly by his features, also by a personal peculiarity. “When I saw you walking along I said to myself, ‘why, that must be Ainslie, whom we all thought dead,” but when I looked at your left hand I knew I was right.” An accident in boyhood had necessitated the amputation of the first joint of Har- ry’s left hand little finger, and his friend had not forgotten this mark. Good Captain Barton was somewhat perplexed to understand how a man, sensible in all other points as Ainslie cer- tainly was, could have so utterly forgot- ten his own name and identity for so many years, but ylelded at last to Ham- let's” conviction that ‘“‘there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy To fly back to England on the wings of- the wind was Ainslie’s one desire, and it was with a chill at heart that he ylelded to his friend's counsels to refrain from writing or communicating until he ar- rived in person. “Nineteen years is a long time to be away,” sald Captain Barton, warningly. and Ainslie understood the unspoken sen- timent that underlaid the words. His wife might be now dead—or another’s! Captain Barton could give no informa- tion on the subiect; Minnie’s life had been too retired for her to keep up intercourse even with her husband's old friends, and it was with amxiety, even with dread. that Ainsi.e returned to England and hastened to e qulet country village where he had left his young bride so many years before. And here, as we have related. the long lost wanderer found the faithful wife waiting and hoping still, and discovered in the bride whose wed- ding he so strangely interrupted, a sweet daughter of whose very birth he had been ignorant. “And now I have only found my daugh- ter to lose her again,” as Harry would sometimes say in jest, in the happy days that followed. But the “loss” had not separated Marian very far from_ her parents, for the Rectory and the.Knoll were close neighbors. Also, within a year of Ains- lie's return, another little daughter was born at the Knoll, followed, in due time. by a baby brother. Minnie’ Ainslie's cup of happiness was now indeed full; her friends sald, she still looked enough to be her daughter’s s'ster. The family circle—with some of the nephews and nieces at the Rectory, so closely contemporary with their little aunt and uncle at the Knoll, was rather a perplexing one to strangers; and the story of Mrs. Ainslee’s married ' life was pro- nonnced a “real romance.” “Wa lost nineteen years of our married life together, my darling,” Harry would sometimes say to his faithful wife. “but 1 think we have all the aecumulated hap- piness of those lost years granted to us now—when we are together again.” “I never quite lost all hope,’ Harry,™ whispered Minnie, “not wven when they made me wear my widow's dress. At Jeast, dearest, I felt you were mine al- ways, and I knew that we should meet again one day, whether I went to you or you returned to me. You remember the motto you had engraved in my wedding ring, ‘Fidelis.” " “T remember the woman who acted that motto in her life.,” replied the happy husband, clasping his wife in his arms,