Ellsworth American. [volume] (Ellsworth, Me.) 1855-current, 1874-03-12

made her unhappy-that nv love for
her had been greater than she had ever
believed could be shown by man to
woman, and that she had rather be my
slave than the wife of any other man
in the world. But when, moved by the
passion of her words and looks, beg
ged her, for her loves sake, to tell me
the cause of her sorrow, and put it in
my power to remove it if possible, she
would burst into tears-even nv ca.
resses seemed to be uncomfortable to
her.
As for me, my own life became ut
terly miserable. The idea of q dread
ful secret sorrow in the life Of the wo-
man l loved so dearly was insupporta-
bic. yet there was no honorable escape
from it. Any privation from her so.
ciety l would have cheerfully endured
if l could have thereby restored to her
the happiness she seemed TO have lost
entirely, but the thought that my suf-
fering was fruitless of any good to her
only added to my misery, 1 lost my
spirits, my appetite, my interest in my
studies, and finally my ability to sleep.
Night after night l spent on the veran-
da, or gioomily strolling under the old
chestnuts about the house, wondering,
hoping, praying, cursing-sometimes
almost determined TO end Eunice's life
and mine, and learn her secret after
we were both rid of its blighting eff
fects.
One dark windy night l was pacing
the veranda, long after midnight, when
was startled by bright light APP
pearing IN the room which had been
Arita's chamber. | instantly deter.
mined that thieves, having heard the
story which every gossip in the village
knew, had selected this night in which
TO carry away some of the valuable
contents Of uiy poor erring wife's
apartments. For years her memory
had been to me thing Of the past, but
now the idea that rude hands could
touch anything once dear TO the woman
l had loved, reused me 10 the widest
fury. Hastily taking revolver from
my desk, and snatching from case of
curiosities two-pointed Malay dagger,
l softly ran through a passage which
lei TO the room where the light was
shining. | stopped at Eunice's room
TO warn her against unnecessary alarm,
but 10 my surprise Eunice was not
there. Could she be in Anita's cham
Der. wondered! l crept along the
passage, pausing at every step or two
to listen. The door Of the long-cIosed
chamber stood ajar, and suddenly l
heard sounds which seemed TO stop nv
hcart-beats. | heard the voice Of Eu.
nice aud voice which ~as hoarse,
rapid, eager, and with foreign ac-
cent.
In an instant l was almost mad with
jealousy. The well-dressed foreign
Deggar-my wife's sorrow and her mys.
terious conduct-her withdrawal from
my companionship and my chamber
her frequent indispositions-the boun-
tltul meals consumed at such times
her aversion to my caresses-all that
had happened since the day had sur
prised my wife and the beggar, linked
itself together in one strong chain OF
damning evidence against nv wife.
She had loved the foreigner-she had
brought him into the house of the man
he was wronglng-she had secreted
hlm IN the rooms she knew were safe
from intrusion-she had even fed him
from her husbands table.
A terrible calm quickly succeeded
my fury, but found me cruel, vengeful,
merciless. ! would surprise them. |
would quickly and surely slay them,
and then, taking my little daughter, !
would fly forever from the home which
had so terribly disgraced me-
Hastily threw open the door, but
it turned noiselessly on its hinges
without disturbing the occupants of
the room, and revealed TO me a scene
which struck me dumb. On the pillow
OF the dainty couch of my lost wife
lay the worn, wasted, unmistakable
face of Anita Lozatos BY the bedside,
clad in white. with her golden hair UNI
bound, and ripping over her face and
shoulders, stood Eunice. Her ewes
were full of tears, while ali the ten
derness of pity, sorrow, and compass
sion heightened the beauty Of her pure
features into something almost angelic
One of her hands was tightly held by
Anita; with the other she was pointing
upward.
Forgive me again" groancd Anita,
hoarseiy, ''for the pain my presence
has given YOU.
ASK forgiveness Of God" replied
Eunice. Il have only done my DUTY"
The years of pain gave Herbert"
continued Anita-"can he ever for
ASK God" said Eunice, still point
ing upward.
''Ah, yes, my sister," said Anita,
''but am not saint like you. God
had all His angels to comfort Him
when l sinned, but Herbert was alone
with his sorrow. Do you think be will
forgive my soul after it has left my
body"
'He will forgive you now," replied
Eunice. ''His is noble soul, and he
is-your husband. Let me bring him" I"
"Oh, do not! l dare not meet him |!
Before l could tell him all he would
curse me-" cried Anita, shuddering
and shutting her eyes as if to hide
some dreadful sight.
"YOu do not know him." replied
Eunice. ale is honor itself. What
ever is pitiful, honorable, manly,
Christian, that is Herbert. He shall
forgive you'll"
He will !" / cried, advancing to the
bedside. Eunice started Anita, with
a wild cry, Ind her face in the pillow.
"Your wife is dying" whispered Eu-
nice. "She has suffered terribly. Be
to her all you can in her few remain
ing moments" And In an instant Eu-
nice disappeared.
Tenderly raised Anita in nv arms