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Show LOVE THAT LIVSE [LIVES] It often happens in the strange medley of human events, paradoxical as it may seem, that "love that lives" may become lost or dead as far as the union of the parties is concerned. Why is it then, that under the trying circumstances of being parted it lives again more vividly, and often assumes a beauty and a halo that it had not otherwise possessed? Is it because the certainty and perhaps the satiety of possession dampens the ardor of our feelings when the object is attained, and proportionately weakens its value? But when lost or unattainable, imagination embalms the loved ones in our memory and invests them with incalculable charms. It is certain, whatever may be the reason, that in some breasts the feeling remains firm and intense and only to be quenched in death.<br><br> Such was the case that came under my observation several years ago. Business at that time called me to Philadelphia. In that city I casually met a gentleman whom I had known well, when we were boys, as we had been to school together, but whom I had lost sight of for many years. He was residing at the same hotel I put up at; he was very glad to see me, and cordially invited me to spend the evening with him in his room. He was a man between fifty and sixty years, of very gentlemanly manners and of rather distinguished appearance. His countenance was pleasant, but grave, and there was a certain expression on it, as if he had known a great sorrow and no common one either. He was a merchant of wealth and standing in the city.<br><br> After I had transacted my business and had my supper I went to his room. We passed the evening pleasantly over our wine and cigars, conversing of the various events that had occurred in our lives since we were boys, of our old schoolmates who went to the academy with us, of their subsequent careers, etc., when it happened, accidentally, to occur to me, and I asked him if he knew whatever became of that pretty girl, Florence Mason, who was with us at the academy. He was raising a glass of wine to his lips as I asked the question. His hand trembled so that he set it down, and I was surprised and pained to see the pallor of his countenance. I felt in a moment I had touched a tender cord, and was sorry. He shortly, however, recovered his composure, and said.<br><br> "There are sad memories connected with that name that I do not like to dwell upon, but you are an old friend and you know her. So I will tell you the story. You will remember that I was rather a green boy at school; proud shy and sensitive, I was not generally popular, and made but few friends. In fact you was the only boy that seemed to understand me. For you I felt a warm friendship. There was another one and that was the girl you mention. There was something so pretty, so sweet, unpretending and confiding about her that the better I became acquainted with her the more I admired her-and she, too, like you, after awhile, saw through the pride and reserve in which I wrapt myself, and caught a glimpse of the warm heart within, and then she, too, gave me her friendship. It was a peculiar kind of pride, that of mine. I had abilities that only wanted opportunity for development, and I could not bear to be looked down upon because I was poor. The aunt, with whom she was staying while attending school, lived in the village, so that I saw much more at her than perhaps you had had any idea. I helped her with her lessons, walked with her from school, and in the evenings was glad to make any excuse to be able to see her. In fact I was fascinated with her, even thou. In the course of a couple of years she finished her course of study and returned to her father's home in New York. I had left school some six months previous, and was a clerk in a large dry goods importing house. I was poor, and working hard for a position. Her parents were rich people and I do not think looked with much complaisance on the acquaintance of a poor dry-goods clerk with their beautiful daughter. Still I managed to see her now and then, and although the rest of the family treated me somewhat stiffly and rather coldly, I always had a warm welcome from Florence and that was what I most cared for. Two or three years passed in this way. Meantime she was rapidly developing into a beautiful woman. You have no idea how lovely she grew. Her cheeks were bright with the roses of health; her lips as red as cherries. Her large, liquid hazel eyes seemed to look into your very soul with their trusting confiding gaze.<br><br> "Her form was a model of beauty, suppleness and grace - her disposition as sweet as her looks. How I loved her! I think, too, I succeeded also in obtaining a strong hold on her affections, notwithstanding it finally ended so untowardly. The circumstances were not favorable to our meeting very often; but, when we did, we were happy-so happy is our mutual endearments. She was in her eighteenth year, I was twenty-one. I was only a clerk, and felt that until I could better my position it would be useless to speak to her parents; especially to her mother, a rather proud and haughty woman who, I did not think, looked with favor on my intimacy with her daughter, and would probably put an interdict on it long ago, had she not loved her as much as her naturally cold disposition permitted and saw how much that daughter's heart was bound up in me; she meant, I have no doubt, to bide her time.<br><br> Her father was an easy-going, good-natured, unpretending man, and I did not apprehend much difficulty from him. But the one I dreaded, most was a brother-in-law, a partner of Mr. Mason's, who had great influence with the mother, and I thought, felt unfavorably towards me. My only hope was to place myself as speedily as possible in an independent position, so as to be able to properly support her.<br><br> "I made up my mind that I would then have my darling in spite of them all. Fortunately, as I then thought, the opportunity I so ardently desired presented itself. I had been now with my present employers several years, and had devoted myself to the business with all the energy and ability I possessed, and had acquired a complete knowledge of it in all its details. I had thus secured the proper confidence of the firm, who now proposed to send me to Europe to purchase goods, and represent the house there, promising me that if I performed satisfactorily the responsible duties devolving on me, that at the end of two years I should be taken into the firm as a junior partner. It was too good an opportunity to be neglected, but I accepted it with fear and trembling. I feared for my darling; what might they do in my absence? But there was no help for it, so we pledged ourselves to one another, and with many a tear and fond embrace, promising to write often, we parted.<br><br> "I spent a little over two years in Europe to the perfect satisfaction of my employers, and at the end of that time returned home to receive the position promised me. I felt very anxious, as during the whole time of my absence I had written myself regularly every month, but had not received from Florence one word in reply. Had I been my own master I never would have stayed abroad, but would have returned long before; but to have done so would have ruined my prospects, when I was particularly anxious to have them in good shape, so that I could secure my darling. I was now, I thought, in a position to support her, and would stand no nonsense.<br><br> "When the steamer landed at New York I went ashore, and was hastening up Broadway in such a fever of impatience and anxity [anxiety] to see Florence that I thought I would go to her house even before I went to my hotel to dress myself and get in more suitable trim. As I was rushing along I saw Mr. Cisco, the brother-in-law. I did not like him, and would have, under ordinary circumstances, have avoided him, but now I was so anxious that I stopped to speak to him, thinking I could at least ascertain if Florence was well. He stopped at my greeting, and shook hands with me as I came up, and said he was glad to see me back. I asked if all the family were well; he said they were, and added with the comical smile that I detested. "We have had a wedding in the family. Florence was married about two months ago. She has just returned to the city, and you will have to call and congratulate her."<br><br> I staggered as if he had struck me a blow. But recovering myself immediately, asked him where she was stopping. "At present," he said, "at her mother's." I simply bowed and passed on.<br><br> "I would have gone to her house that evening, I longed so to see her sweet face again, though it would be the last time. But I was not able. The shock was too great - it had taken all the strength out of me. I was weak as a child. I could hardly get to my hotel, hurry to my room and shut myself in. Just as I thought I was about to accomplish what I longed for and that which had been the aim of my life, and for which I had labored so hard, at this moment to have my hopes shattered was maddening. That night sleep did not visit my eyelids. I walked the floor all night. I could have cursed myself, God, everything. It is a wonder I didn't blow my brains out. Still in all this madness I didn't blame my darling. I knew some damnable plot had been invented, and she was the victim as well as I.<br><br> "In the morning, as soon as propriety permitted, I called at Mr. Mason's, and asked to see Florence. What her married name was I did not know, neither did I care. She came into the room in which I had been shown. She looked thin and pale, and I saw by the startled look of anguish in those fawn-like eyes when she saw me, that it was as I supposed, she had been sacrificed. I took and pressed her hand. I made no reproaches; I asked no explanations. What was the use? I knew how it had been done better than she could tell me.<br><br> "I did ask, though, two questions: Had she received any letters from me during my absence? ‘None.' Had she written any to me? She said: ‘Surprised at not hearing from me, she had written several.' None was received by either of us. That told the story.<br><br> "‘Florence,'" I said, ‘they have separated us; our paths in life will now be divided, and we must see one another no more. Oh, my lost darling, will you give me one last kiss and embrace? She threw herself into my arms, kissed me and sobbed as if her heart would break. I too, clasped her to my heart and kissed her passionately, almost madly, then gently disengaged myself form her embrace, and, leaving her half fainting, staggered from the room and house. That night I was seized with brain fever, delirious, out of my head, and it was four weeks before, the shadow of my former self, I was able to show myself at the store.<br><br> "I then requested my partner - as I had been taken into the firm - to allow me to take charge of our branch house in Philadelphia. I felt I could not live in the same city with her and not see her; I should die. I knew also a change of scene was the only way to dull the agony of my heart.<br><br> "In my new location I endeavored by close application to business to employ my mind and keep it from preying on itself. Thus several years passed. I was lonely and sad and wanted some kind of companionship. I found a lady that suited me as well as anyone could now. She knew my story, pitied me and married me; and though we were not very demonstrative, we were tolerably happy. Sons were born to us-now grown up and making their way in the world. Three years ago my wife died, and I am now again comparatively alone in the world, with nothing to keep me company but the sad memory of our happiness.<br><br> "I never saw Florence again after our sad parting. I heard that her husband married her for her money. It seems she was an heiress in her own right. I did not know this and should not have cared for it if I had. I would have married her for her own sweet self. Her husband, it was said, thought more of her money than of the girl herself. He was rich, too, and she was sacrificed to match. Poor Florence! She was trusting and loving and did not possess the necessary stamina to stand up against the machinations brought to bear against her. Hers was a sad lot. My darling, how I would have loved and cherished you. She may now be dead; I think it is likely she is. If she is still alive she is an old woman now, but she never was and never will seem old to me. I only see those large and trusting blue eyes and the peach bloom of the lovely cheeks, and feel that last loving kiss and embrace. They have been present to me all these years, and they will be in my thoughts on the brink of eternity, together with the hope that we shall both meet again in heaven." His tears were falling fast as he finished his story. My eyes also were dim. I grasped his hand and bid him farewell. I felt he would rather be alone-no words of mine could console him.<br><br> I saw his death about three years ago in a Philadelphia paper. He has gone to meet, I trust, that dear one in heaven, whom he loved so vainly but so faithfully on earth. Such is love that lives.-Pioneer Press. |