Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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o ntl) ron THI SUMTER WATCHMAN, Established April, 1850. "Be Just and Fear not-Let all tlie Ends thou Aims't at, betiiy Country's, thy God's and Truth's." TBE TRUE SOUTHRON, Established Jone, 1566 Consolidated Aug. 2,1881. SUMTER, S. C., WEDNESDAY, JULY 21, 1894. New Series-Yoi. XIII. No. 50. Published Every Wednesday, INT. CSi-. Osteen, SUMTER, S. C. TSRMS : Two Dollars per annum-io advance. ADVERTISEMENT: One Square first insertion........$1 00 Every subs?quent insertion-. 50 Contracts for three months, or longer will be made at reduced rates. All communications which subserve private interests will be charged foras advertisements. Obituaries and tributes of respect will be charged for. Speciall??? Haft** For the remainder of the year. THE WATCHMAN .?.-.. and ..?..?.SOUTHRON Will be sent to any address until Jan'y 1, 1895, -FOE 75 Cents. This offer is made as a special induce? ment. We are go? ing to double our subscrip t i o n list within the next few months and we want the name of every man, who wishes to keep up with the times, on our subscription list. The Watchman and SOUthron is the biggest, best and newsiest paper pub? lished in this section of the State, and it should go into e^ry household. Eight pages of all home print matter every week. Clubbing rates with all Agri? cultural Journals, Literary Pe? riodicals and Leading Metro? politan Weeklies. This extra special four-page edition has been scattered broadcast throughout Sumter and adjoining counties so that those who are not subscribers may be made acquainted with this special offer. The Watchman and Southron wants a reliable Agent at every Post Office in Sumter and adjoining counties. A liberal commission paid. Write for tecnia. COPYRIGHT, T8S3, BY THC AUTHOR. CHAPTER L THE STORY OF THOMAS WINGFIELD. I, Thomas Wingfield, was born here at Ditchingham and in this very room where I write today. I am sprung from the fam? ily of the Wingfields of Wingfield castle, in Suffolk, that lies some two hours on horseback from this place. My grandfa? ther was a shrewd man, more of a yeoman than a squire, though his birth was gentle. He it was who bought this place with the lands round it and gathered up some for? tune, mostly by carefully marrying and living, for though he had but one son he was twice married, and also by trading in cattle. Now, my grandfather was godly minded even to superstition, and, strange as it may seem, having only one son, nothing would satisfy him but that the boy should be made a priest. But my father had lit? tle leaning toward the priesthood and life in a monastery, though at all seasons my grandfather strove to reason it into him, sometimes with words and examples, at others with his thick cudgel of holly that still hangs over the ingle in the smaller sitting room. The end of it was that thc lad was sent to the priory here in Bungay, where his conduct was of such nature that within a year the prior prayed his parents to take him back and set him in someway ; of secular life. Not only, said the prior, did my father cause scandal by his actions, breaking out of the priory at night and visiting drinking houses and other, places, but such was the sum of his wickedness he did not scruple to question and make mock of the very doctrines of the church, alleging even that; there was nothing sa? cred in the image of the Virgin Mary which stood in the chancel, and shut his eyes in prayer before all thc congregation when the priest elevated the host. "There? fore, " said the prior, "I'pray you to take back your, son and let him find some other road to the stake than that which rims through tibe gates of Bungay priory." It was believed both by my grandfather and the prior that the true cause of my fa? ther's contumacy wa? a passion which he had'eoncerved for ? gb? of humble bfrth, a milter's fair daughter who dwelt at Wa ingford Mills. So; the end of lt was that he went to foreign parts in. the care of a party of Spanish monks, who had journey? ed here to Norfolk on a pilgrimage-to the shrine of Our Lady o? Walsingham. Thus it chanced that when he had sailed from Yarmouth a year and six months there came a letter from the abbot of the monastery in Seville to his brother, the prior of St. Mary's at Bungay, saying that my father had fled from the monastery. Two more years passed away, and then came other newsj-namely, that my father had been captured; that he had been hand? ed over to the power of the holy office, as the accursed inquisition was then named, and tortured to death at Sevilla When my grandfather heard this, he wept. Still he did not believe that my father was dead in truth, since on the last day of his own life, that ended two years later, he spoke of him as a living man and left messages to him as to the management of tho lands which were now his. And in the end it became clear that this belief was not ill founded, for one day, three years after the old man's death, there landed at the port of Yarmouth nono oth? er than my father, who had been absent some eight years in alL Nor did he come alone, for with him he brought a wife, a young and very lovely lady, who afterward was my mother. She was a Spaniard of noble family, having been born at Seville, and her maiden name was Donna Luisa de Garcia. There were three of us children-Geof? frey, my elder brother, myself and my sis . ter Mary, who was one year my junior, the sweetest child and the most beautiful that I have ever known. We were very happy children, and our beauty was the pride of our father and mother and the envy of other parents. I was the darkest of the three, dark indeed to swarthiness, but in Mary the Spanish blood showed only in her rich eyes of velvet hue, and in the glow upon her cheek that was like the blush on a ripe fruit. My mother used to call me her little Spaniard because of my swarthiness-that is, when my father was not near, for such names angered him. She never learned to speak English very well, but he would suffer her to talk in no other tongue before him. Still when he was no ? there she spoke in Spanish, of which language, how? ever, I alone of the family became a mas? ter, and that was moro because of certain volumes of old Spanish romances which she had by her than for any other reason. From my earliest childhood I was fond of such eales, and it was by bribing me with the promise that I should read them that she persuaded me to learn Spanish, for my mother's heart still yearned toward her old sunny home, and often she would talk of it with us children, more especially in the winter season, which she hated as I do. Once I asked her if she wished to go back to Spain. She shivered and answered no, for there dwelt one who was her en? emy and would kill her, also her heart was with us children and our father. Now, when I was 18% years old, on a certain evening in the month of May, it happened that a friend of my father's, Squire Bozard, late of the hall in this par? ish, called at the lodge on his road from Yarmouth, and in tho course of his talk let it fall that a Spanish ship was at an? chor in the roads laden with merchandise. My father pricked up his ears at this and asked who her captain might be. Squire Bozard answered that he did not know his name, but that he had seen him in the market place, a tall and stately man, rich? ly dressed, with a handsome face and a scar upon his temple. At this news my motlier turned pale be? neath her olive skin and muttered in Span? ish: "Holy Mother, grant that it be not he!" My father also hwked frightened and questioned the squire closely as to the man's appearance, but without learning anything more. Then he bade him adieu with little ceremony, and taking horse rode away for Yarmouth. That night my mother never slept, but sat all through it in her nursing chair, brooding over I know not what. As I left her when I went to my bed so I found her whenT carno from i fat dawn, Tc?n re? member well pushing the door ajar to see her face glimmering: white in the twilight of the May morning as she sat, her large eyes fixed upon the lattice. 'iYou have risen carly, mother," Ijaid 4*ITi'avc~ncverT?loTc?own, Tl?omasT"1s??e answered. 4 4 Why not ? What do you fear?' ' "I fear the past and the future, my son Would that your father were hack. " About 10 o'clock of that morning, as I was making ready to walk into Bungay to the house of the physician under whom I was learning the art of healing, my father rode up. My mother, who was watching at the lattice, ran out to meet him. Springing from his horse, he embraced her, saying: "Be of good cheer, sweet; it cannot be he. This man has another name." 4tBut did you see him?" she asked. "No; he was out at his ship for the night, and I hurried home to tell you, knowing your fears. " "It were surer if you had seen him, hus? band. He may well have taken another name." 44I never thought of that, sweet," my father answered, "but have no fear. Should it be he, and should he dare to .set foot in the parish of Ditch ingham, there are those who will know how to deal with him. But I am sure that it is not he. " "Thanks be to Jesu then!" she said, and they began talking in a low voice. Now, seeing that I was not wanted, I took my cudgel and started down the bridge path toward the common foot? bridge, when suddenly my mother called me back. 1 "Kiss me before you go, Thomas," she said. 4 4 You must wonder what all this may mean. One day your father will tell "Kiss me before you go, Thomas," she said. you. lit has to do with a shadow which has hung over my life for many years, but that is, I trust, gone forever." "If it be a man who flings it, he had best keep out of reach of this," I 6aid, laughing and shaking my thick stick. "It is a man," she answered, "but one to be dealt with otherwise than by blows, Thomas, should you ever chance to meet him." "May be, mother, but might is the best argument at thc last, for the most cunning have a life to lose.*' 4'You are too ready to use your strength, son," she said, smiling and kissing me. 4'Remember the old Spanish proverb, 4 He strikes hardest who strikes last.' " 4 4And remember the other proverb, mother, 'Strike before thou art strick? en,' " I answered and went. I never saw her again till she was dead. CHAPTER IL THE COMTSG OF THE SPANIARD. And now I mus?; go back and speak of my own matters. As I have told, it was my father's wish that I should be a phy? sician, and since I came back, from my schooling at Norwich-that was when I had entered on my sixteenth year-I had studied medicine under tho doctor who practiced his art in the neighborhood of Bungay. He was a very learned man and an honest, Grimstone by name, and as I had some liking for the business I made good progress under him. Medicine was not the only thing that 1 studied in those days, however. Squire Bozard of Ditchingham, the same who told my father of the coming of-the Span? ish ship, had two living children, a son and a daughter, though his wife had borne him many more who died in infancy. The daughter was named Lily and of my own age, having been born three weeks after me in the same year. From our earliest days wc children, Bo zards and Wingfields, lived almost as brothers and sisters, for day by day wo met and played together in the snow or in the flowers, Thus it would be hard for me to say when I began to love Lily or when she began to love me, but I know that when I first went to school at Norwich I grieved more at losing sight of her than because I must part from my mother and the rest In all OUT games she was ever my partner, and I would search the country round for days to find such Sowers as she chanced to love. When I came back from school, it was the same, though by degrees Lily grew shier, and I also grew suddenly shy, perceiving that from a child she had be? come a woman. Still we met often, and, though neither said anything of it, it was sweet to us to meet. Thus things wert on till this day of my mother's death. But before I go further I must tell that Squire Bozard looked with no favor on the friendship between his daughter and myself, and this not because he disliked me, but rather because he would have seen Lily wedded to my elder brother, Geoffrey, my father's heir, and not to a younger son. So hard did he grow | about thc matter at last that .we two might scarcely meet except by seeming ac? cident, whereas my brother was ever wel? come at thc hall. And on this account some bitterness arose between us two broth? ers, as is apt' to bc the case when a woman comes between friends, however close, for it must be known that my brother Geoffrey also loved Lily, as all men would havo loved her, and with a better right perhaps than I had, for he was my elder by three years and born to possessions. Now, when I had attained 19 years I was a man full grown, and, writing as I do in extreme old age I may say it without false shame, a very handsome youth to boot. I was not overtall indeed, measuring but 5 fest 9^4 inches in height, but my limbs ?. well made, and I was both deep and id in the chest. In color I was, and, white hair notwithstanding, am still, aordinarily dark hued; my eyes also were large and a^rkj_and my hair._which i j was wavy, " was coal "blacl?. In my deport ! ment I was reserved and grave to sadness; ! in speech I was slow and temperate and j more apt at listening than in talking. 1 j weighed matters weil before I made up my mind upon them, but being made up nothing could turn me from that mind short of death itself, whether it were set on good or evil, on folly or wisdom. In those days also I had little religion, since partly because of my father's secret teach? ing and partly through the workings of my own reason I learned to doubt the doc? trines of the church as they used to be set out. On this sad day of which I write I knew that Lily, whom I loved, would bo walk? ing alone beneath the great pollard oaks in the park at Ditchingham hall. Here, in Grubsweli as the spot is called, grew, indeed still grow, certain hawthorn trees that are the earliest to blow of any in these parts, and when we had met at the church door on the Sunday Lily said that there would be bloom upon them by the Wednes? day, and on that afternoon she should go to cut it. It may well be that she spoke thus with design, fur love will breed cun? ning in the heart of tho most guileless and truthful maid. Then and there I vowed to myself that I also would be gathering hawthorn bloom in this same place, and on that Wednesday afternoon-yes, even if I must play truant and leave all the sick of Bungay to nature's nursing. More? over, I was determined on one thing-that if I could find Lily alone I would delay no longer, but tell her all that was in my heart, no great secret indeed, for though no word of love had ever passed between us as yet each knew the other's hidden thoughts. Now, it chanced that on this afternoon I was baird put to it to escape to my tryst, for my Piaster, the physician, was ailing and sent me to visit thc sick for him, carrying them their medicines. At the last, however, between 4 and 5 o'clock, I fled, asking no leave. Taking the Nor? wich road, I ran for a mile and more till I had passed the Manor House and tho church turn and drew near to Ditching ham park. Then I dropped my pace to a walk, for I did not wish to come before Lily heated and disordered, but rather looking my best, to which end I had put on my Sunday garments. Now, as I went down the little hill in the road that runs past the park I saw a man on horseback who looked first at the bridle path that at this spot turns off to the right, then back across the common lands toward the Vine? yard hills and the Waveney, and then along the road, as though he did not know which way to turn. I was quick to notice things, though at this moment my mind was not at its swiftest, being set on other matters and chiefly as to how I should tell my tale to Lily, and I saw at once that this man was not of our country. He was very tall and noble looking, dressed in rich garments of velvet adorned by a gold chain that hung about his neck, and, as I judged, about 40 years of age. But it was his face which chiefly caught my eye, for that moment there was some? thing terrible about it. It was long, thin and deeply carved. The eyes were large and gleamed like gold in sunlight; the mouth was small and well shaped, but it wore a devilish and cruel sneer; the fore? head lofty, indicating a man of mind, and marked with a slight scar. For thc rest the cavalier was dark and southern look? ing; his curling hair, like my own, was black, and be wore a peaked chestnut col? ored beard. By the time that I had finished these observations my feet had brought me al? most to the stranger's side, and for the first time he caught sight of me. Instantly his face changed, the sneer left it, and it became kindly and pleasant looking. Lift? ing his bonnet with much courtesy, he stammered something in broken English of which all I could catch was the word Yarmouth. Then, perceiving that I did not understand him, he cursed the Eng? lish tongue, and all those wbo spoke it, aloud and in good Castillan. 41 If the senor will graciously express bis wish in Spanish, " I said, speaking in that language, "it may be in my power to help him." "What, you speak Spanish, young sir!" he said, starting, "and yet you are not a Spaiiiard, though by your face you well might be. Caramba, but it is strange!" and he eyed mc curiously. "It maybe strange, sir," I answered, "but I am in haste. Be pleased to ask your question and let me go. " "Ah," ho said, "perhaps I can guess the reason of your hurry. I saw a white robe down by the streamlet yonder," and he nodded toward the park. 4'Take the ad? vice of an older man, young sir, and be careful. Make what sport you will with such, but never believe them and never marry them-lest you should live to desire to kill them!" Here I made as though I would pass on, but he spoke again: ''Pardon my words; they were well meant, and perhaps you may come to learn their truth. I will detain you no more. Will you graciously direct me on my road to Yarmouth, for I am not sure of it, hav? ing ridden by another way, and your Eng? lish country is so full of trees that a man cannot see a mile?" I walked a dozen paces down the bridle path that joined thc road at this place and pointed out the way that he should go, past Ditchingham church. As I did so I noticed that while I spoke thc stranger was watching my face keenly, and it seem? ed to me with an inward fear which he strove to master and could not. When I had finished, he raised his bonnet and thanked mc, saying: "Will you bc so gracious as to tell me your name, young sir?" "What is my name to you?" I answered roughly, for I disliked this man. "You have not told me yours. " "No, indeed; I am traveling incognito. Perhaps I also have met a lady in these parts," and ho smiled strangely. ?'I only wished to know thc name of ono who had done me a courtesy, but who, it seems, is not so courte?us as I deemed. " And he shook his horse's reins. "I am not ashamed of my name," I said. ''It has been an honest one so far, and if you wish to know it it is Thomas Wingfield." "I thought it," he cried, and as he spoke his face grew like thc face of a fiend. Then before I could find timo even to wonder he had sprung from his horse and stood within three paces of me. "A lucky day! Now we will sec what truth there is in prophecies," ho said, drawing his silver mounted sword. "A name for a name; Juan do Garcia gives you greeting, Thomas Wingfield. " Now, strange as it may seem, it was at this moment only that there flashed across my mind the thought of all that I had beard about tbe Spanish stranger, the re? port of whoso coming to Yarmouth had stirred my father and mother so deeply. At any other time I should have remem? bered it soon enough, but on this day I was so set upon my tryst with Lily and what I should say to her that nothing else could hold a place in my thoughts. "This must be the man, " I said to my? self, and then I said no more, for he was on me, sword up. I saw thc keen point flash toward me and sprang to one side, having a desire to fly, as, being unarmed except for my stick, I might have done without shame. But'spring" as I would I could not avoid the thrust altogether. It was aimed at my heart, and it pierced the sleeve of my left arm, passing through the flesh-no more. Yet at the pain of that cut all thought of flight left me, and instead of it a cold anger Ailed me, causing me to wish to kill this man who had attacked me thus and unprovoked. In my hand was my stout oaken staff, which I had cut myself on the banks of Hollow hill, and if I would fight I must make such play with this as I might It seems a poor weapon indeed to match against a Toledo blade in the hands of one who could handle it well, and yet there are virtues in a cudgel, for when a man sees himself threatened with it he is likely to forget that he holds in his hand a more deadly weapon, and to take to the guarding of his own head in place of running his adversary through the body. And that was what chanced in this case, though how it came about exactly I can? not telL The Spaniard was a fine swords? man, and had I been armed as. he was would doubtless have overmatched me, who at that agc had no practice in the art, which was almost unknown in England. But when he saw the big stick flourished over him he forgot his own advantage and raised his arm toward away the blow. Down it came upon the back of his hand, and his sword fell from it to the grass. But I did not spare him because of that, for my blood was up. The next stroke took him on the lips, knocking out a tooth and sending him backward. Then I caught him by the leg and beat him unmerciful? ly, not upon the head indeed, for now that I was victor I did not wish to kill one whom I thought a madman, as I would that I had done, but on every other part of him. Indeed I thrashed him till my arms were weary, and then I fell to kicking him, and all the while he writhed like a wounded snake and cursed horribly, though he never cried out or asked for mercy. At last I ceased and looked at him, and he was no pretty sight to see. Indeed what with his cuts and bruises and the mire of the road? way it would have been hard to know him for the gallant cavalier whom I had met not five minutes before. But uglier than all his hurts was the look in his wicked eyes as he lay there on his back in the path? way and glared up at me. "Now, friend Spaniard/' 1 said, "you have learned a lesson, and what is there to hinder me from treating you as you would have dealt with me who had never harmed you?" And I took up his sword and held it to his throat. "Strike home, you accursed whelp!" he answered in a broken voice. "It is better to die than live to remember such sham, as this." "No," I said; 'M am no foreign murder? er to kill a defenseless man. You shall away to the justice to answer for yourself. The hangman has a rope for such as you. " "Then you must drag me thither, " he groaned and shut his eyes as though with faintness, and doubtless he was somewhat faint. Now, as I pondered on what should bc done with the villain, it chanced that I looked up through a gap in the fence, and there, among the Grubswell oaks 300 yards or more away, I caught sight of the flutter of a white robe that I knew well, and it seemed to me that the wearer of that robe was moving toward the bridge of thc "wa? tering, ' ' as though she were weary of wait ing for one who did not come. Then I thought to myself that if I staid to drag this man to the village stocks or some other safe place there would be an end of meeting with my love that day, and I did not know when I might And another chance. Now, I would not have missed that hour's talk with Lily to bring a score of murderous minded foreigners to their de 1 thrashed him till my arms were weary. serta, And, moreover, this one had earned good payment for his behavior. Surely, thought I, he might wait awhile till I had done my lovemaking, and if he would not wait I could find a means to make him do so. Not 20 paces from us the horse stood cropping the grass. I went to him and undid his bridle rein, and with it fastened the Spaniard to a small wayside tree as best I was able. "Now, herc you stay, " I said, ''till I am ready to fetch you, " and I turned to go. But as I went a great doubt took me, and once more I remembered my mother's fear, and how my father had ridden in haste to Yarmouth on business about a Spaniard. Now today a Spaniard had wan? dered to Bitchingham, and when he learn? ed my name had fallen upon me, madly trying to kill me. Was not this the man whom my mother feared, and was it right that I should leave him thus that I might go Maying with my dear? I knew in my breast that it was not right, but I was so set upon my desire and so strongly did my heartstrings pull mo toward her whose white robe now fluttered on the slope of the Park hill that I never heeded tho warning. Well had it been for me if I had done so and well for some who were yet unborn. Then they had never known death, nor I the land of exile, the taste of slavery and the altar of sacrifice. CHAPTER HI. THOMAS TELLS HIS LOVE. Having made the Spaniard, as fast as I conI(37 his- ara?s-" 'being' "Bound to ~th~5 free behind him, and taking his sword with me, I began to run hard after Lily and caught her not too soon, for in one more minute she would have turned along the road that runs to the watering and over the bridge by the Park hill path to the hall. Hearing my footsteps, she faced about to greet me, or lather as though to see wno it was that followed her. There she stood in the evening light, a bough of hawthorn bloom in her hand, and my heart beat yet more wildly at the sight of her. Never had she seemed fairer than as she stood thus in her white robe, a look of amaze upon her face and in her gray eyes that was half real, half feigned, and with the sunlight shifting on her auburn hair that showed beneath her little bonnet. Lily was no round cheeked country maid, with few beauties save those of health and youth, but a tall and shapely lady, who had ripened early to her full grace and sweetness, and so it came about that, though we were almost of an age, yet in her presence I felt always as though I were the younger. Thus in my love for her was mingled some touch of reverence. "Oh, it is you, Thomas," she said, blush? ing as she spoke. "I thought you were Having made the Spaniard as fast as I could. not-I mean that I am going home, as it grows late. But, say, why do you run so fast, and what has happened to you, Thomas, that your arm is bloody and you carry a sword in your hand?" "I have no breath to speak yet," I an? swered. "Come back to the hawthorns, and I will tell you, " "No; I must be wending homeward, I have been among the trees for more than an hour, and there is little bloom upon them." "I could not come before, Lily. I was kept and in a strange manner; also I saw bloom as I ran.:' "Indeed I never thought that you would come, Thomas," she answered, looking down, "who have ^her things to do than to go out Maying ) .ea girl. But I wish to hear your story, :.s short, and I will walk a little way with you." So we turned and walked side by side toward the great pollard oaks, and by the time that we reached them I had told her the tale of the Spaniard, and how he strove to kill me, and how I had beaten him with my staff. Now, Lily listened ea? gerly enough and sighed with fear when she learned how close I had been to death. "But you are wounded, Thomas!" she broke in. "See, the blood runs fast from your arm. Is the thrust deep?" "I have not looked to see. I have had no time to look." "Take off your coat, Thomas, that I may dress the wound. Nay, I will have it so." So I drew off the garment, not without nain, and rolled, up the shirt beneath, and there was thc hurt-a clean t hrust through the fleshy part of the lower arm. Lily washed it with water from the brook and bound it with her kerchief, murmuring words of pity all the while. To say truth, I would have suffered a worse harm glad? ly if only I could And her to tend it In? deed her gentle care broke! down the fence of my doubts and gave mc a courage that otherwise might have failed me in her presence. At first indeed I could find no words, but as she bound my wound I bent down and kissed her ministering hand. She flushed red as thc evening sky, thc flood of crimson losing itself at last be? neath her auburn hair, but it burned deep? est upon the white hand which I had kiss? ed. "Why did you do that, Thomas?" she said in a low voice. Then I spoke. "I did it because I love you, Lily, and do not know how to begin the telling of my love. I love you, dear, and have always loved, as I always shall love you. " "Are you so sure of that, Thomas?" she said again. "There is nothing else in thc world of which I am so sure, Lily. What I wish to be as sure of is that you love me as I love you." For a moment she stood quiet, her head sunk almost to her breast. Then she lift? ed it, and her eyes shone as I had never seen them shine before. "Can you doubt it, Thomas?" she said. And now I took her in my arms and kissed her on the lips, and the memory of that kiss has gone with me through my long life and is with me jet, when, old and withered, I stand upon the Ixjrdcrs of the grave. It was the greatest joy that has been given to mc in all my days. Too soon, alas! it was done, that first pure kiss of youthful love, and I spoke again, some? what aimlessly: "It seems, then, that you do love mo who love you so well?" "If you doubted it before, can you doubt it now?" she answered very softly. "But listen, Thgmas. It is well that wc should love-each other, for we were born to it and have no help in the matter, even if we wished to find it Still, though love be sweet and holy, it is not all, for there is duty to be thought of, and what will my father say to this. Thomas?" "I do not know, Lily, and yet I can guess. I am sure, sweet, that he wishes you to take my brother Goeffrey and leave me on on? side." "Then his wishes arc not mine, Thomas; also, though duty be strong, it is not strong enough to force a woman to a mar? riage for which she has no liking. Yet it may prove strong enough to keep a woman from a marriage for which her heart pleads. Perhaps also it should have been strong enough to hold me back from the telling ofmylojve." -