a romance uncovered
by searching for ‘hope’
in Josephine Spencer’s
The Senator from Utah
A dead man gains small satisfaction
from the execution of his murderer.
He is impetuous, self-sacrificing to a fault,
and his nature and disposition will lead him
to be foremost in any undertaking,
however dangerous,
provided it should hold the hope of furthering his loved cause.
I revere his high purpose but fear,
lest any day he may be led causelessly
into danger.
Her eyes were dim with tears.
Fearing the consequence of further delay,
she turned the knob timidly
with the hope of finding someone within.
Entering she found herself in a hallway,
at the further end of which was a door.
Here she knocked, also in vain,
and, made bold by her fear, opened this one too,
not daring to give up her quest.
Close observation revealed
that the waters of the lake,
having risen nearly four feet
since the time the passage was cut,
have almost completely covered the door,
but little more than thirty inches being visible at the top.
This fact of course interfered with our proposed plan,
since the opening of the door would admit the waters of the lake
into the passage
to a depth sufficient
to cover the adobe part of the partition
by means of which, alone, we could hope to carry out our design.
His breath came in short quick gasps.
Only one hope for him now, to reach that something
looming darkly in the purplish distance
and take shelter in its shadow.
Every glimpse of her kept his love alive
and he grew thin, thinking of ways
to scale the barrier between them,
knowing all the time that it was well-nigh impassable.
There was no other hope,
since a boat would never make the distance
in time to enable her to accomplish her purpose.
She glanced across the hillside. An electric car
had just stopped in front of the gate
leading into the capitol grounds. It was two blocks distant
but, in an instant,
she had nerved herself for her task
and was hastening swiftly in its direction,
choking and breathless, to the spot,
with the hope of identifying the men who were keeping it alight.
Drive to the spot at once! with the hope of gaining the shelter
of the old frame shanty,
which had been erected there,
before any of the conspirators should have time to arrive.
They passed a tedious hour.
The hands pointed to 11 o’clock
and there was no sign of the approach of either boat or wagon.
He began to have a hope that they were to be disappointed.
His blood was up and he was anxious to have the exciting affair precipitated.
Excusably inexplicable was her devotion to her old lover’s memory.
The truth was
that she still held
an absolute faith
in the possibility
of his return
and the very intangibility
of the one reason
upon which her hope was based,
as well as the added improbabilities
belonging to the case,
had always made her charitable in her judgment.
Neither they nor any other could have an understanding
of the feelings which governed her own actions.
She did not tell anyone.
It seemed to her too sacred
to admit of human confidence.
She simply waited,
trusting
in some miraculous way,
perhaps, to see her hope fulfilled.
Her dependence on those long cherished hopes
had been the last thing removed from sentimentality
and few people,
seeing the reliant and courageous taking up of her life’s tasks,
could have guessed the strange fancies
or realities
in which she found comfort.
The chief redeeming point for her absorption and devotion
was that the man to whom it was directed
was worthy—
of these fine personalities
which attract men and women alike:
Fine, sensitive, sympathetic,
and expressed with a frank impulsiveness
that operated like an electric current.
C. H. nos Pejos spends most of his time as a figment of your imagination.
