Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1874-01-17

time. In few days had o notice from q
bankiDg-bo in New York that q certain sum
would he paid me every year by order OF Mrs
Isabel Deane. 1t WAS precisely the amount OF
the allowance I had mentioned IN my letter
not an extravagsnt sum, but just enough to sup
port my boy and me decently.
:" She could spare Ii we'll enough, and, after
ALL don't know why should be sorry for do
ing it; She had had more than her share Of
took my little thunderbolt. heard she went
10 Europe with her children"
Madeleine DeiOuX had said all this in a high /,
constrained voice, as If she had been wound up
to run just as many minutes. She now shrank
down among her pillows, and seemed TO be
bracing herself 10 receive my wrath in what
ever form it might break upon her.
For one black instant had a savage longing
to clutch her throat and shake out of her what
little life she had left but the great joyfulness
of the tidings that could send to Isabel swept
give another turn TO the rack on which remorse
and disease had long bound her. 1 felt only
CONTEMPT for the workings of such mind,
when she looked into my eyes again.
I" see you have been furious, !" she said. read
ing me as if had been printed in the largest
type;'but now you have turned scornful. You
used to be devout admirer of Mrs. Deane,
who, with all her tameness, could fascinate
men and women both. know all the wires
that men are pulled by, but ! never had wo
man friend unless you Will be that one"
al! j, your friends said with a shudder
that did not try to hide.
"Never mind" she said YEARLY; 81 can do
without " as 1 nave alwayS. i see YOUR interest
in me ends with this interview. You would
trample me under your feet if you could help
Mrs Deane by it."
THAT is of course. I may think of you in
connection with Mrs. Deane's sorrow as one
thinks OF the serpent in the ruin of Eve we
fon0y hsr fortune ever after, but don't know
th9f anybody cared what became of that par
tigulaT serpent"
E'I was sore tempted" she pleaded, "and
Gould not see my boy starve."
T. Where isyour boy now?'
4 oh, he is dead. never repented till them"
NAnd if be had lived you would never have
unAeceiyed your victim; you would have let her
dra1 ont her life in torturing doubt of her hus
banRs taith?'
And think so too l said, drawing my
cape, WHICH she had never let go, out OF her
hand. " No+s are installing Temorse for repent
ance: but at ieast, TO give you your due, you
have done one good thing before it is too late'
She turned her face away from me with a
movement OF Impotence, as if she half grudged
even that one white thread in whole life wo-
ven ont of evil, and l went quietly out of the
ipfirmary and ran all the way to my own house
While Madeleine Dejouxs words were fresh
in my memory, wrote every one as she had
spoken them, but they could not reach Isabel
in less than fortnight and l would not pro-
long her psifTeyen that length of tine.
1 wrote half a-dozen kilograms before could
hit on form of words that satisfied me.
One was: "Madeleine DejOux has confessed
her deception" And another: "The woman
who wrote lying letter to you is dying" but
iNhitN lhC an NVuiu uC OptHGu ny d
stranger, or by one of the children, before it
should reach Isabel, and the questions and sur
mises as to its meaning would be endless. at
last | settled on this: "Glad tidngs of great low
Look for a letter"
Then l made three copies of Madeleine's con-
fession, and sent them on successive days to
Heidelberg, that Isabel might be nearly sure OF
getting one of them if the others failed.
Then | sat down and folded my hands. so to
speak, feeling myself the centre of a great
stretch of peace and CalmneSs as people do after
troublesome piece of work is fairly finished,
and folded up and laid away for future use.
never saw again the wild, self-tOrtuTing wO-
man who had first stolen and then restored Isa-
bells comfort, but the matrOn sent me a notice
OF her death two or three days after my visit to
her.
In less than two months after she came home,
bringing her children. She stood worn and al
tered, but the sweet, soft glow of happiness
again frightened her eyes and flushed her
cheek. Her talk, as of old, was full of simple,
innocent, womanly matters, untouched b. the
sarcasms which had come over the sea in all
these years, and had pricked me like arrows.
We spoke no word of all that had come and
gone between US. We just buried the ugly
skeleton, and put no stone to mark the place.
But when she was again settled in her Old
home, with her work table in front of Mr.
Deanes portrait (Which she had begged from
MS sister,, sometimes caught her returning
glance as she gazed long upon it, and l con-
stantly read IN her face, Forgive me, forgive
me, . my husband"
To hear with eyes is part of loves fine wit,
and Ours was but q wOman's friendship, but
loved Isabel Deane well enough for that.
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