Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1876-11-04
rconolnded ftomlI first : rage /

fore you played with me-"
Il know it, she says, humbly. "But
if j played with you it was dangerous
play for think | have wounded myself
to death."' k#ts
A t'0ttalie. forgive me, he cries; al think
/ am going mad. Oualie-"
mo, no, mo- don't tempt me. please,
she sobs, leaving him where he stands
go, Mr.. Dame please go, for all is over.
Aud would ask you to forget me ii-but
no. don't forget me quite" she breaks Off
with q cry of pain; mot quite, not quite.
Only try not Toto blame me more than
you can help"
Her tears break out at last between the
dry sobs. His only answer is to snatch
her to him and kiss her granddaughter
face, her slender hands, even her hair.
''Go," she gasps out, "please go. Jas
per-"
And GO he does. Ard the next morn
ing before Some is well astir, Oualie and |
and our boxes go off like the shame faced
things we are.
The sea shore again. More sand and
fewer houses than at Some; we are hun
dred miles from the delectable spot. Some
was not much; but this-who shall de-
scribe its dreariness? Sometimes think
cannot bear it. 1t is the fag-end of the
world hardly anything but the lighthouse
to see. Weeks have passed since we
came; the signs OF Winter are at hand.
What shall we do when Winter comes? ]
am sitting on the doorstep, and Ottalie IS
walking up and down as il she had been
wound up and warranted to go so many
hours; her eyes are fastened on the sea,
and her long skirt stirs the leaves that lie
dead on the path
"I'd Just as soon be in my grave as
here,"I groan-for 10 truth all things wear
a cruel aspect to me to-day.
Ouallie stops TO speak. Deborah,
don't, please don't. We must stay here.
1t is a safe retreat no one knows it. |
sometimes fear / am not good woman
that you know am not. am afraid to
risk temptation again. Sometimes | won
der if he"-her voice sinks, and she turns
her pale, thin face toward me-"if he
were to find me and ask me the same
thing, should have the strength to say no
again. Oh, my mother, il you were but
living now ~ she adds, clasping her hands
and taking up her weary tramp again.
1t is the first time she has alluded to
Jasper Dame. The thought exasperates
me. must be getting ill tempered out
of sheer WEAKNESS.
q II warned you in time, Ottalie. Did |
not tell you how II must end ?"
Eyes, l know all that; it is no ones
fault but mine." she answers, as her eyes
wander out seaward again. The eyes
have dark circles perpetually now. and
her pretty face has lost its bloom As a
gust of wind lifts her hair see how sharp
sened its outline has become.
~ How dreary this is And what is drear-
Ter still. every day brings US nearer to that
OF Captain Joyce's release. And then
viii he find us here ? VIII she die of it
oh, Ottalie, Ottalie II | am cross it is
for her sake.
To and fro she still tramps. ] sit on,
with my despair, and watch the smoke
from the coastguard cottage chmnevs
curling up against the gray sky, and the
last leaves from the solitary row of pop
lar trees fall off in the wintry winds.
And this is our life. How long will it
lasta Task the question of myself as the
faint, red sun CLEANS out for moment
beyond theli Clubhouse, and then sinks to
its rest; sinks, only to rise again on the
morrow to rise and set on many countless
to-morrows. How long?
The sea-gulls flap into shore, screech-
ing angrily, and the waves, the sad sea
waves, come creeping IN slowly over the
sands. with sad, sullen moan, in and in,
until the faint color left by the sun is gone
and night is upon us. And all night long
l lie on my pillow and listen to the waves
and cannot sleep.
The morning brings letter. A letter
for us j Only one individual in the wide
world, so far as know, is coguizant of
our address; the friendly lawyer. once a
relative OF my dead mothers through
whom we get our small income transmit
ted periodically. What can be have to say ?
1t Is only the middle of the quarter o.
taiie, seated opposite to me at the break
fast-table, glances at ii with some faint GU
riosity.
"Old Weston must have gone in early"
she remarks, alluding 10 the distant post.
town.
He had to fetch something betimes tor
the lighthouse"
The letter is addressed to me, and open
u Az 1 glance at its contents, mist
gathers before my sight, and turn sick
end faint. Isitright to be glad at fel-
low Creatures deathP know NOT.
What Is the matter, Deborah Pr -t
S.Cencerns me2n -
Yes. Some one istlead.s
] Q She gazes at me with parted lips. "Nol.
-"eshe begins and stops.
Yes, he is dead. Your husband. Your
husband has died in prison"
l don't quite remember how we got
through the day, except that we hardly
exchange two words. What OltaIie feels
know not ] am thankful.
Why, there's stranger !" | exclaimed