DORLAN WARTHELL.
A few years subsequent to the events recorded in the last chapter, in the
city of R----, where our country friends had gone to live, on a sultry
summer evening, near sunset, Morlene went forth into the front yard of her
home for the purpose of watering her flowers. She had on an evening gown,
while her head was hidden in a bonnet. With her back to the street, she
stood leveling the water from the hose at the various flower groups. While
she was thus engaged, a man above the average in height, possessing a form
that conveyed the impression of nobility and strength, was in the act of
passing by. When he came directly behind Morlene, having a keen relish for
nature's supreme efforts at the artistic, he was so struck with the
outlines of her form that he involuntarily stopped.
"Now that is what I call beauty," he exclaimed, without knowing that he
spoke.
Morlene vaguely felt that some one had stopped, the fact of the cessation
of the footsteps dawning upon her consciousness. She turned full around and
her eyes fell on the handsome face of the man gazing at her. His skin was
smooth, his features regular, his eye intelligent and his head so formed
as to indicate great brain power. As to color he was black, but even those
prejudiced to color forgot that prejudice when they gazed upon this
ebony-like Apollo. Wherever he appeared he was sure to attract attention as
a rare specimen of physical manhood. His was evidently an open, frank
nature, and his soul was in his face.
As Morlene looked upon him, she felt her strength give way. The hose fell
from her hands. Her very soul sent up a wail: "Alas, O God, there he is!
Why did you let him come?" She turned and fled to her house.
Dorlan Warthell, for such was the name of the man, was much discomfited
that he had so terrified the lady, and resolved at some convenient time to
apologize for the shock that his behavior had caused. He entered the yard,
stopped the waste of water from the hose and proceeded on his journey,
carrying in his mind the image of the most beautiful woman on whom he had
ever laid eyes.
Morlene on entering her room, locked the door, burst into tears, buried her
face in her hands, sobbed violently. Judge her not too harshly, dear
reader. Allow her this brief moment of weeping over the re-opened grave of
her long buried ideal; for, one glance at Dorlan Warthell, say what you
will against love at sight, had somehow sufficed to tell her penetrating
spirit that he was the one man, who, had she been free, could have exacted
that full strength of love, which, struggle as painfully as she might,
would not yield allegiance to Harry whom she had married under a species of
duress. Morlene dropped her hands from her face, forced a smile to appear,
stamped a pretty foot upon the floor and said between gritted teeth:
"Avaunt, ye idle dreams of youth; I am a woman now, a man's lawfully wedded
wife! Come not here to haunt me with visions of what might have been!"
When Harry came home from his work that evening Morlene met him with a
greeting of more than usual warmth, as much as to say, "Poor Harry, your
place in my heart is the safer, now that my dreams of other days have been
met in concrete form and gloriously vanquished." She now consoled herself
with the thought that she would one day love Harry as she had always
desired to love a husband. Happy in this thought, she retired to rest, and,
much to her chagrin and annoyance, dreamed of the handsome stranger whom
she had seen.