Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1858-09-27

At the sound of his voice, Bessie Laton leaned
forward suddenly and looked into his counte
nance, No one may hope to describe the CLEAN
that flashed across her face, as she spoke one
word
"Philip"
" Bessie Bessie"' said he, staggering, rather
than rushing forward, and then he fell on The
floor by the bedside, his hands seizine and hi,
lips kissing the folds of her garment that swept
across the feet Of the dead girl who lay beside
her.
Philip, is it you at last, my husband, my be.
loved: Have you come at last to see me die ~
Die Who talks of DEATH Marie, Marie,
Bessie, wake her, speak to her-rouse her-she
Is cold Did you say dead? Dead?"
What mean you, Philip Who is this ,''
This. She is Marie, Marie
And what to you?
TO me! She is my-my-my-"
Philip. Speak not the word wife or what,
L care not. 1 see all now Silence, 1 saw
They have called me by the name Won have
given that child. Oh wretchcd man! Know
You not that having left me to bear the agony
OF that curse falsely was enough, but you must
give the foul name to her too? Philip, have
IL In my heart to curse you. 1 know not
whether L should pray God tonight to damn
you for your sin or no. L love you, love you,
Philip, and hate you too
She glared at him with her fierce black ewes,
and he was silent, but looked at her
aye, look at me, your wreck, your ruin
See you this cheek, you kissed it, loved to kiss
1t over. 1t will be food for worms next Spriny.
God knows if it be not next week See these
arms. How you loved their clasp, and vet Won
wandered on from them, and sought embraces
elsewhere and forgot them. What delights
those were, oh Philip, Have you had sucb
with this frail child Did you love her, Phil
Up! 1 love her too, for this, that she loved
you, and was betrayed by you Did she know
that you had wife, or did she think her cheek
ever tell her Of me ?''
She paused and glared at him yet more
hereely, and he was silent still Only boarse
murmur as II he would speak escaped his Inns
but he bad not yet spoken.
And yet love you, Philip. 1 love YOU !,
1 that am dying say it again, again. Dying
Vn Iod, Is TINS lie. L prayed just now for
him found him in the arms of another, but
what OF that! 1 would tear him out of the
arms OF an angel-and clasp him to my own
heart to be-as he is-mine-my own PhiIip
this body of mine is dying See these breasts
and she tore open her vest to show him her
white bosom,-'' these breasts that pillowed
your cheek are to be hillocks of dust in the
grave yard under the Windmill So end ali
the delights of love. So ends hope So ends
grief SO ends the brief, said life of Bessie
Laton. L ou have killed her-but-but but
lay your head here once more, once more, nv
husband" A'
She reached her arms out to him, and he
threw himself across the dead form of the
French girl, into the embrace that waited him
Their lips met, and they were silent while life
grew to Immortality of joy in that long kiss,
and then there was a cold shudder in her frame
"a areiaxlng OF the clasp-a strange fierce smile
on her tace-and they carried him away.
She did not die until two or three weeks
later, but she never knew father, mother, or
husband again.
Who he was no one ever knew, for his lins
were sealed. though he watched by her untiI
she died Then he disappeared, and the peo-
PIE ior years after that wondered over the
story stone by her grave rescued her name
from lnfamy, though its story was brief and
indefinite But the villagers readily believed
good OF one they had loved so well, and it was
even whispered by some that the husband of
Bessie Laton was a kings son.
Years afterward, one of those WANDERING
sons OF Long Island, who are to be found
Wherever the traveller has gone, was in the
presence OF a monarch whose name is known
In history and story. That traveller, though
put boy when Bessie Laton died, remem-
oered with perfect clearness the face of her
Iusoanu, ana ne now saw 1T once more. But
tne position OF the tall and stately man. with
dark face and downcast eye, standing ON the
right hand of his sovereign, forbade any at'
tempt to remind him then and there of the
tempestuous night when he found his BETRAYED
and deserted wife, dying on the shore of Long
Island. 'e
You may well believe that Peters story
lasted until We reached Essthampton. Now
don't let any Long Islander bother me by
DOUBLING this story, and disputing Peters
facts Ii happened somewhere, If il didn't
on Long Island, at least Peter says 50, and
who can tell how many and what secrets the
graveyards Of old country villages keep low
under ground What red lips, could thew
open in the dust, would tell love tales. What
forms' could they move, would nestle in the
clasps OF love, those close embraces of which
the grave itself and decay and dust can hardly
bar the memory. What thin old Iips wonld
whisper stories of youth and passion and mad
ness. Faithfully, w.