He Kept His Promise

No onc over thonght tua1 May Foswould m&rry John Oiiarrington, but lie thougb . ,i things which Juhn Charrington Sntended liad a quear way oí ■■■ -.. He iiad asked her to marry hiui he went to Oxford. 8Ui , a and refused Jiiiu. He aked her agaln nct time he carne hoiu Agaán süe Qaughed, toseed her d.iinly 1.; aml agaia reíused. A tliird time he 'asked her; slie said St va.s tecomlnK a coníinned tad habit, and lauglied iit him inua'e than Ver. Joan wafl liot the only man who wami'd to mairry her; she was the belle of village coterie, and we Avere all ín love wtth her more or lese; it was a sort of fashion, like üuashcr collars or Inverness capes. Thereiore we were as jnucli annoyed BB Kurprised when John Charrington "walked into oux little club- we had it in the loft over the saddler's, I rejnember--and invited us all to hls ■wedding. "Your wedding ?" "ïou tlon't mean it !" "Who's the happy Pair ? When's it to be T' John Charriiigton filled nis pipe and lighted it befare he replied. Then he said: 'Tm sorry to deprive you fellows of your only joke- but Mists Foster and I are to bc married in September." "You don't mean it 7" "He's got the niitten. again, and it's turned Jiis head." "No," I eaid rising, "I see it's true. Ijend me a, pisto! some one, or a lïrst-class iare to tte other end of Xowhere. Charrington has bewitch'ed the only pretty glrl in our twentyfive mik j'iidiu.s. U'.is it mesmerism Dr a, iove portion, Jack ?" "Xeitlier, Bit; lut a gift you'll never Iiave - perseverance- and the best luck a man ever had in the world." There was nomething in his voice that eilenced me, and all the chaff oi the other feJJowe failed to draw him further. The queer tliing about it was that when we congratulated Miss Foster ehe bhished and smUed and dimpled lor all the World as though she were in love wlth him, and had been in love ■vith Mm all the time. Upan my word I thought ehe had. Women are singular creatures. We were all asked to the wedding. In Brixham everyone who was anybody knew everybody etee who was any one. My sist-ers were, I truty belieTC, more Interested in the troueSeau than the bt-ide herseli, and I was to be the best mam. The coming mai-riage was much canvassed at afternoon tea tables and at our little club o-er the saddler's, and the question was alwaye asked, "Does she care for hün ?" I used to usk that question ol myseli in the early days of their engageanent, but a certain evening in Augitót I never asked it agaln. I was coming home trom the club "through the church-yard. Our church is on a thyme grown liill, and the turf 'about it is so thick and soft that one's footsteps are aoteeless. I made no sound as I vaulted the iow, lichened wall and threaded my ■way foetween tambstones. It was at the sam instant that I heard John Charringtoirs Totee and saw her face. May was tsitting ou a Iow, flat gravestone, with the iull Bplenilor (i ilic western min upon her migiionne face, lts expxession ended at once a.nd íorever any queetíon of her love íor hlm. It waa trametigured to B beauty I should not have belíeved poeeible even lo 1lmt lieautiful little íace. John lay at her feet, and it was his 'voice that lwoke the BtUinese of the golden August eveuing. "My dear, my iWuv, 1 lx-lieve that I hliould come back trom the dead 11 you ■wanted m." I coughed at once to indícate my preeence and passed on into the shadow iully enlightened. Tlie wedding was to be eaa-ly in September. Two days before I had gone lip to town on business. The train wae late of course, for we were on the Southeastern, and as I stood erumbling wiüi my watch in, hand, whiom ehould I see but John Chaa-rington and May Postea-. They were wadking up and down the unfrequented tad oí the platform, arm in arm, looking into each other's eyes, careless ol the eympathetic interest of the portere. Of conree I knew better than to hesitate a juoment before burying myselí In the bookimg office, and it was not till the train drew up at the platform that I obtrusively passed the pair wlth my (ladstone and took the corner !n the ïirst-class smoking caxriage. I did this with as good an air of not seeing them as 1 could aesumo. I pHde inysflí on my discretdon, but Sf John was travelling alone 1 wanted hls ctanpany. 1 liad it. "HeJlo, oíd man," carne his cherry voice, as lie Bwnig his baggage into my cairriage; "here's Juck; 1 was expecting a idull journey .'" "Where are you off to ?" I asked, 'discretion stiU bidding me turn my oyes away, though I saw without looking that hers were red rimmed. "To oíd BranbridgeV lie answerfed, shutting the door and leaning out íor a last word with his sweetheart. "Oh, I wish you wouldn't go, John," she was sa y ing in a low, earnest Voice. "I fecl certain something will happen." "Do you think that I ishould lct anythiiig happen to keep me, and the day after to-morrow our weddin"'day ?" "Don't go," she answered, with a pleading intensity which would have sent my G ladstone on the platform ■and me afísr ít. John Charrington was made diiiVieiuly; he rarely changed lús opináone, never his resolutions. He etroked the little ungió ved haad that l;iy un the cairiage door. -X must, May. The oíd boys been tiwful good to me, and now he's Uyíng 1 musí go n;;d see liim, but i ahail come liuniL' ín time íor" - The ix-sl ii i i , was lost in a whisper .i the rattling oí thu etartlng "You'a-e ure tu come '.'" ishe s])oke . vajaim nio cd. ■"No1 liing shall keep ïne," lie answered; aiid we steained away. Aiter he had iseen the last oL tiie little figure on tiie plauoi-ni he leaned back iu liis corner and kept silence for ix miuute. 'nen iie üpoke iu was to expLain to tue tüat lis godïather, whose heir he was, lay dying ut Pearmarsh place, Borne lüty miles away, a.ud iiad sent for Jolm, and John feslt iound to go. 'I Kiiall le aurely back to-morrow," Ii sail, "'or, ii ixot, the day aiter, in heapa of time. ,Thaok heaven, one ha.sn'L to {jet up .in the middle of the night to get lnaii-riied Jiowadays !" "And suppose Mr. Braoibridge dies?" "Alive or dead, 1 anean to be i-iod on Thuraday !" Joüu auswered, lightiug a and um'olding Tüe Tunea. , At -l'earinarsh station lie said ""guod by," and Ixe gol uui, and 1 tav üini i'ide oU'. ï went 1L0 London, wiiere 1 et-ail zha night. When I g-ot liome the next aiternoou - a very wet onc, ,by tlie way- iay Bititer greeted me with: "WJiwea Cliarriiig'tün ?" "üoodness kiiows," ï unswered testUy. Kvery wan Bince Cain lias 1'f.seiuud tliat kind w a. questiou. "1 tlHULsüt you luight Jiave beard irom Jniu," slie weanb on, "a you're t.o give kun away m-iuoitüiv." "Ien't be back V" 1 asked, for 1 had couiideutly expected to iind Jiiiu at liome. "No, God&ey,"- my siater always had a way vi juniping to coiiclusions, ' especially sucii coiiclusions as were least favorable to her fellow creatures - "he ha iiot returiied and, what is more, you may depend upon it, lie 1 twon't. Vou niark tuy words, there'll be no wedding to-moorow." My sister Panuy liad the power oï larmoying me which no other human being poseesses. "You mairk my words," I retort■Hrlth fwperlty, "you had better give up making Buch a thimdering idiot oí yourselí. Tüere'll be inore wedtíing to-morrow tlian ever you'll take the first part in." A prophecy which, by the way, carne true. But though I could snarl eonfidently to my sister, I did not teel so comioa-tabJe when, late that nlght, I Standing on the doorstep of Jolin's house, heard tliat he had not returned. Next moi-ning brought a brilliant blue sky, goM buu and ,all such soltness of air and beauty of cloud as to make up a perfect day. I woke with a vague íeel'iiig of haviixg gone to bed 'anxious, and of being j-atlier averee to Miat anxiety in tlie light Of full wakefulniess. But wtth my Bhaving water eame a note rom John which relieved my mind and sent me up to Fosters with a ligia heart. -M.i.v was In the garden. L saw her blue gown through -the hollyhoeks as the lodge gate üwimg to behind me. So I did not go up to the house, but turned aside down the turfed path. "He's u-ritten to you, too," 8he said, without preliminary greeting, when I ireached Her Bide. "Ves, l'm to meet Jiim at the station av.i thiree, and come straight to the church." Her fa.ce looked pale, but there wa n. brightness In her eyes anti a tende ■quiver passed about the anouth tha Bpoke of r eme wed happiness. "Mr. liranbridge begged hlm bo to etay aiiother night tliat lie liad not the heart to ï-efuse," i-she went on. "He is bo kin-d; but I wish ]ie hadn't taid," 1 was at the station at 2.30. I feit irather amioyed vith Jolin. It seenied u, sort oí slight .to the beautiful girl who loved him, that he ehould come, as It -were, out of breath and with tlie dust oí travel upon him to take her hand, which some of us would have given tlie best years of our life to take. ' But %vhen the three :o'clock train Blided In and out ogain, having brouglit uo passejigers to our little station, I was more than annoyed. Tliere was no other train ior thirtyfive minutes. I ealculated that, with ïnuch Imrry, we miglit get to the church in time íor ',the ceremony- . but, oh, what a 'íool to íniss that íirst train. AVhat other man could have done it ? Th&t thiirty-íive minutes Beemed ;t year as 1 wandei-ed '.round the station o-eading advertisniente, time ,ta1les, and the company's by-laws and Ketting more and more ngry with John Charrington. Tliis confidence in h-is own powers of getting overything lie wantvd, the minute he wauted it was teading him too iar. I hate waltlmg. Every eme does, but I believe 1 hate it more than anyone else. The 3.35 train was late, oí Cowse. i I ground iny pipe between my teetli and Btaniped with impatience ,as I watched the signáis. Click ! ,ïhe eignals went down, Bhowing that the train would not stop, as it had ho passengers for our station. Pive minutes later I flung myself jnto the carriage that I had brought for John. "Drive to the church 1" I aid, as feome one shut the door. "Mr Charï-ington Jiasn't come by tuis train." Anxiety now replaced anger. What had become of the man ? Could he have been taken suddenly 11 ? I had tnever known him ïo ave a, day's illnoss in his life. And even so, lie might have telegi-aphed. Some awhil accident might have happened to i liiin. The thought that he had pía e, liever- no, not for a moment - entered my head. Yes, Bome, terrible had happeneU to him, wad on me lay the taek oí telling bride. I teil you I almost wish!(,;;;■ ■ -voiild lipset and break niy 'head, so that some onc else niight teil her, not I, 'wlio- but that's nothing to (Tu with the story. It v.as '■',. .")." ■when we drew np at 'ilic (lui-cliyai-d gate. A doublé row oi eager oalookere liaed che path frora lich gatc to porch. I sprang from the cairlage and paeeed up between them. Out gardeaer had 'a good front place neac the door. I Bfcopped. "Aro yon waiting still, Byles ?" I aeked, elmply to g-ain time, ior of eouireel knewtheyiwere, by the -vahing- erowd'e atteiitive attitude. ' "Waitiiifi', sir ! Xo, 310, eir; why, it must le over 'by now." "Over ! Then Mr. Charringtoii'ii come '!" "To the minute, sit; must have totoeed you eomehow, andl tsay, sir," lowering Jiis voiee, "I m-ever nee Mr. John the least bit 'so afore, but my opinión is ïie's been di-inking pretty iree. His clothes were Sall dusty and hls face like a sheet. I teil you I Uidn't like the looks of hini at all, and the folks inelde are saying all sorts of things. You'll see something's gone very Wrang wltb Mr. John, and he's tried liquor. He looked like a ghost, and in he went wlth his cyes straight before him, wlth nevér a look or a word 'for noiie of us; him that Wiis always sucha gentleman !" I Ihad liever heard Byles make so long a. feiKit'ch. The crowd in the churchyard were talkhig in whlspers and getting i-eady rice and slippers to tlirow at the bride and bridogroom. The Fingere were ready wlth their handti on tlie i-Opes, to ring out the mea-ry peal as the bride and bridcfrroom ehould come out. A iinuirmur i'rom tlie church announced them; out they came. Byles was ü-ight, John Charrington did not look like himself. Thero was dust on . liis coat; his hair was disarranged. He eeemed to have been in eome row, 'or tliere was a black mark above hls eyehrow. He was deathly pale. But his pallar was not greater thau that of his bride, 'who tnight have been carved 5a ivory- dress, veil, orange blossoms and all. ■ As they passed out, 'the Tingers stoprped - there were feix of them- and then, on the eiiTB expecting the gay wedding peal coiné the Blow .tolltng of the pesBtng bell. A thrill of horror at so foolish a jest iirom the riugers passed through us all. But the ringers themselves dropped the 1-opes and íled like rabbits down tlie belfry etairs. The bride slmddered, and gray shadows came nbout lier mouth, but 'the bridegroom Led lier on down ,the path where the leople etood with liandfulls of riee; but the handiuls of rice were never thi-own, aaid the Wedding bells never rang. Iji vain the r'ingers were urged to a-emtdj' their mistake; they protested witli luany whispei-ed expletivos that they would nee themselves ïurtlicr first. In a liush like a husli in the chambear of deatli, the bridal iair passed into thvir carriage, and its door as elammed behind theni.ïlien the tongues were loosened. A babel of anger, wonder, conjecture i liic guests -and the spectatorc. ■'li ld Been iii.s condition, si-r," said old Foeter to me a.s we drove off, "I would liuve stretched hlm on the floor of the churcli, Kir, before I'd let htm ni.iiiy my danghter '!" Tlien iie put Iii.s Jicad out of the i viudüw. "Drive like iury," lie cried to the coachman; ■'don't Bpare the horees." He was obeyed. We paseed the bride'e ca-rriage. 1 iorbore to look at it, and old Fostor turned liis head away and Bivore. We a'eached home befare it. We Btood in the Jiall doorway, in the blazimg aftea-noon kun, and in ■about hall a minute we heaxd wheels erunching the gravel. AVhen the carriage btopped in front of the steps, old Poster and I ran down. "Great heavens ! the carriage is empty ! And yet - " I liad the door open in a minute, iand this ís what I saw: No Bign of John Chairrington; and of May, has wife.'only a huddled heap Of white satin lying half on the floor of the carriage and half on the seat. "I ido-ove, straight here, Kir," said the coachman, as the bride's father lifted her out, "aoid I'll ewear no one got out oí the carriage." We carricd lier into the house in her bridai dress and drew back her veil. I saw her (ace. Shall I ever forget if.' White, white and draws with agony and horror, bearing such a look oí terror as I have liever seen Bince except in dreams. And her liuir, lier radient blonde liair, I teil you it wan white like Bmow. As we fetooa, father and I, half mad with the horror and the mystery oí it, a boy came up the avenue- a telegraph boy. They brought the orange envelope to Jne. I tore it open! ".Mr. Charrington was thrown from lis norse on his way to the station at .30. Killed on the spot !" And he was married to May Fosterf n our parish church at 3.30 in presnce oí half the parfeh. "I hall be anarried, dead or alive !" What had passed in, that carriago n the hotneward drive, no one knows - no one will ever 'know. Oh, May ! fa, my deair ! Before a week was !over they laid lier beside her husband iin our little hurehyard on the thyme-covered hill -the churchyard where they had kept heir love tryste. i Tlius was accomplished John Charington's wedding.- Temple Bar. , A man Ie known by the money he ccps.- Detroit Free Press.