THE
RESULT
OF
AN
IMPULSE.
THE RESULT OF AN IMPUL8E.
hewing only the murmur of their voices, without distinguishing the words.
“Margaret,” spoken tenderly and questional-
I was brought suddenly from my dream-land of thought.
Bewildered, and momentarily stunned, I was as if smitten by a blow. The one utteranoe of that name had awakened more thought than a volume. I had heard it myriad times spoken by that same voice, but never before did it convey so much unspeakable happiness to one, unutterable wretchedness to another. I had lived in a sweet misunderstanding of everything around me, even of my own heart; that explained all, and showed me my idol shattered, my beautiful air palaces in ruins.
I heard vague words besides, but not until Fritz said, “ My treasure, how reckless I am of your sweet welfare,” did I comprehend my position as a listener to a tale spoken for one ear alone. I arose hastily, and, passing into the back parlor, entered the hall, and sought my own room. Darkness was to me preferable to light, so I sat down by my open window, and watched the dense shadows waving, almost without sound, on the grass of the lawn. The shock had unsettled me so that I could not even think of my despair. The pain was in my heart, piercing, heavy and incurable.
CHAPTER III.
It must have been quite late when Margaret sought her room adjoining mine By this time the moon had risen, so that the shadows of the trees no longer darkened my window. She listened at my door a moment, and then opened it quietly.
‘Why, Kitty, how like a ghost you look in that moonlight!” she said, laughing softly, and coming toward me.
“Ah!—you, Margaret?”
“Yes. I say you look like some goblin, so erect and definite. Yon—why, Kitty, you are cold as a toad! I am afraid it is your ghost; had you no light?”
It was well, probably, that she came in, for I had fallen into an apathetic state, almost a swoon; except that stinging anguish at my heart. She closed the window, wheeled my velvet-lined rocking-chair toward the table, and sat me in it, while she knelt at my feet, and rubbed my hands s vigorously.
“You model of prudence, to soar so far into the clouds spiritually, that your little mortal s body is abused. Why one degree more of night
air coldness and you would have been solid! It has made you white as a ghost; what is the matter, Catharine?”
She was becoming alarmed at my passive silence; I tried to rouse myself.
“Bring me a little wine, deary; or stop—my volatile salts!”
I shook off my lethargy, and that her happy heart might not know disquiet, that night at least, I told her falsehoods.
“I had a very hard headache, and, overcome with a weary sort of nervousness, I thought cool air would benefit me: and I have had too much of it. Go to bed now, I am better.”
“I cannot sleep; let me stay here; I will extinguish the light.”
“Do you wish to tell, or ask me anything?” I said, imprudently, disclosing my thoughts. I was glad she did not observe it.
“Some other time, I have something wonderful to tell you, but you are too frozen for sympathy now; I will wait.”
Her happiness of heart would not allow her even to speak pitifully to me.
“Tell me now, I cannot sleep; and if tears are to be shed, I can manufacture some for your accommodation.”
She drew close to me, and looked up with her sweet, childish eyes full into my face, and told me what I knew she would.
“I saved her from death once; if I can, I will save her from sorrow now,” and so I smoothed her soft hair, but with so heavy a pressure, that it aroused wonder in her face. But it was all done earnestly.
“Good night, my darling.”
“Wait,” she said, “you are older than I; you know more, much more. Is it wrong for cousins to marry ? Is it wrong for me to love Fritz ?”
Why this thought could arise in her mind, I could not divine, and I said, “No, no; you can¬ not help it; it is natural.”
Then she left me, taking her light, and pass¬ ing gently as she came, like a beautiful vision. “Oh! heaven is very kind,” said my rebellious heart, “to her.”
At morning, the same depression of inner pain prostrated me. It was with difficulty that I appeared at breakfast Nevertheless I did so, and they all remarked the paleness of my face, and expressed sympathy for me in my illness, giving me an abundance of warnings never again to allow the spring night air to catch me asleep. I was sincerely glad they were deceived. What was so constantly in my mind, and almost upon my tongue, I fancied must be visible to every eye.
