Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1874-08-22
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II thought you didn't. Well let US see;
H'm-h'm. Can you help me little !!
Monstrous thing. Give me those scissors
please, H'm-h'm-ihere! Mrs. kothely,
what do you call thisp Here is your key,
slipped between the carpet and the wall
and all the agitation OF your search, with
its sweeping and moving, Is only calcula-
ted to slip it still further into hiding. |
told YOU the thing would turn up" And
he went back with apparent composure to
his sleep; but he did not close his eyes at
once, for it was tremulous moment to
him. A tremulous moment, too, to his
wife; she clasped the key moment to
her heart with as profound an ejaculation
of thanks as if she had been on her knees,
and then she flew TO the little safe and I'M
locked it and snatched the casket. Yes.
there it was, and there were the jewels in
it. with their old and exquisit filigree set
ting in gold-work of tiny shamrock and
thistle.
'.Oh my beauties !" she exclaimed.
How glad-how glad | am to see you
sparkling up at me again! On, now
precious you are What should have
done if had lost your
II was quite right" said Mr.. Rothely to
himself. at is evident she would not
have parted with them. Women are love-
" creatures, but not reasonable ones.
Yes, / should have been a sad fool, he
was thinking bitterly, ''to have risked my
fortune for a moment on the supposition
that she could prefer her husbands honor
to her baubles :" And he closed his eyes
as he lay there, perhaps to sleep, perhaps
to shut out the sight of the woman he
loved rejoicing over the deceit that he had
practiced upon her.
But what was this All, what? What
were these soft arms around his neck, this
velvet cheek on his, this sweet voice muir
muring in his ear. this gay, light hearted
laugh, these sudden tears Pr wake up
wake up, my darling!" his wife crying.
Didn't tell you had such a delightful
plan before l lost the key to the safe ?
Didn't hear you talking in your sleep,
and saying you were to be ruined for the
want OF hundred thousand dollars See
here, my dear husband! Here's hum
bred thousand dollars in this little case,
and it is all yours, and you needn't feel
badly about taking it, for | always kept
the jewels as if you lent them, and if they
help you in your trouble they will give
me more pleasure than they ever did be-
fore!'
Mr.. Rothely sat up in bed, pushing back
the case, and staring straight before him
with wild eyes. "Oh, you think only
care for gayety and glitter!" she cried.
You think it is too great sacrifice for
me to make. But indeed, indeed and
here, with both arms about him, and her
face hidden in his breast, she broke out in
a fresh flood of sweet, glad tears-"l
never dared tell you. you never seemed to
want me to tell you, but indeed had
rather be-if only you are pleased. ''Oh.
l never was so happy in my life T! And you
will take them Pr
Was he dreaming? Was he here in his
own bed, in his own house awake? Oh,
had he perjured his soul for this! Had he
believed his wife to be so small in order
that she might destroy him with her great
nessP Had he stolen her jewels that he
might receive from her the free gift of
these bits Of colored glass? Must he all
his life carry round with him the shame
and memory of crime-of a crime. too,
that was so useless? He drew away from
her, shuddering and then, as she still
clasped him, he folded his arms about her,
and the tears that he was weeping were
different tears from hers-were tears salt
as the salt with which the desert is
sowed!
Well, that was years ago. Mr.. Rothely
took the casket his wife had pressed upon
him, and burned it in his office fire, case
and gold and all. The world has pros
pered with him since then, and he has re-
placed Mrs. Rothely's emeralds with those
which are much more magnificent than
the original. But though now he knows
how firmly his wife believes in him, know
that he need want no more for sympathy |
and comfort, yet he feels that he pur-
chased that knowledge at price too dear.
He cannot bear to see her put her Jewels |
on. for every ray of their light is like
needle pricking the sore spot in his heart,
and he never has said another Syllable
about the words he wants written on his
grave-stone. And sometimes at night, |
when Mrs. Rothely is in her happy
dreams. and Mr.. Rothely sits lingering 10y
his dressing-room fire, the skeleton that
slips into the opposite seat makes him hide
his face before it, and wish he had never
seen the light, and yet it is only the image
of himself as he has seen himself to be-
Hayper's Bazar.