The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1877-05-02

1t was her husbands voice, but the little
wife broke not the silence that followed as
she crept away and CROPPED through the gath
ering dark to her home, from which, now in
deed, all the sunshine had departed. She
assembled 10 her little girls room with a
weary step, as if her senses were dulled for
ever by the mercile blow she had received,
and the light was dead in the soft brown
eyes as she gathered her child In her arms
and kissed it passionately several times ere
she laid it in the crib again.
"Oh, Cod make Lou good to her" she ir3-
plOred, as she dropped on her knees and
raised her hands to Heaven. "Oh, save my
child from shame, and my husband from
sim l care not what becomes of mel'
Without another look she passed hastily
into her own room, wrote a few words on a
slip of paper and placed it between the
leaves of the Bible from which she and her
husband always read before retiring. With
out trusting herself to enter his room she left
the house, not YEARLY as she had entered in,
but like frightened fawn, fearing she would
be discovered by the servants or met by the
faithless husband and sped along the grav-
eled pathway down TO the lake. The search
that was made for her when the lovers re-
turned and missed her was unavailing. They
found her body next morning floating among
the creamy lilies on the CLASSY bosom of the
water, and the miserable pair restrained
themselves within the polite code so far as
to wait the prescribed years close to wed.
Any more hasty arrangement would act the
world a talking. "Jennie's death was such
an accidental deliverance," Lou said on
their wedding day.
The blissful tranquility of his life with
Jennie was not to be his with southern-eyed
Lou. The prize was won, her base, avaric-
ious nature was satisfied. the willowy mask
was laid aide and the wearer stood revealed.
Her hirtations were the talk of the city, and
L IL
grace she was bringing on his name and
her own. But he might as well talk to the
winds
One night, after a stormy scene, during
which he forbade her receiving any more at
tentions from a wealthy, unprincipled man
who flashed on the city's society horizon
some months previously, he left the house
and went into the city. He mingled with
the busy throng of life pouring along the
streets, and when all sought their rest he
wandered up and down the deserted ave-
nues, his foJtfAll on the echoing pavement
sounding like his death knell; up and down
until the early dawn greeted his pallid
face and then he turned homeward.
All was still there as he entered. He
went straight TO his wife's room. meaning TO
ask her forgiveness for his harsh words and
10 WOO her by gentle means to be to him the
lovable long, long ago. But she was not
there; her bed had not been slept in. With
a wild throbbing at his heart he took up
note addressed to him lying on the table
beside the yet burning lamp, and the blood
surged at maddening pace through his
veins as a sense of the great shame that had
come upon his house smote him. He read
you held your marriage honor so light
that you can not blame me for holding mine
light also. The subject of your angry talk
last night is the object of my love and the
partner of my flight Do not seek to pur.
sue us. it is useless but console yourself
with the memory of my cousin, Jennie Will
bur"
For the first time since the morning when
her body was found among the golden heat
ed, creamy lilies, a fitting couch for one so
pure and fair Joe Delaney unlocked the
door of Fannie's room and entered. 1t was
just as she had left il, but the dust of three
years lay thick on everything around. In
all his blind passionate love for Lou he re-
garded this chamber a sanctuary of inno-
cence and purity, ana as she made no objec-
ton, il was shut away from use. Almost
mechanically he took her Bible from the
table and opened il. A slip of paper hut-
tered out and fell to he floor. He picked it
up and read-read until the words were
burnt in his brain, were written in waves of
flame on the scOrched. sere, bleeding heart
read this message from the dead wife with
the letter from the living one still in his
hand. The words were lust like sweet Jen-
ME:
~ love you so dearly, my husband. that /
die to save you Die, that you may be saved
from sin and shame. accidentally heard
you and Lou speaking in the summer house
just nova few words only but enough to
decide me. Ask her for me to be kind 10
Baby Bessie, and remember, Joe-0hl my
husband! remember, whatever may betide,
that / loved you TO the last moment, and
will carry my love for you with me even be-
yond my last sleep. JENNIE"
'Retributionl' groaned the stricken man,
as he sank on the chair, while his head fell
heavily on the Bible, between whose leaves
Jennie had placed her last message, never
dreaming that three years instead of three
hours would elapse ere il was read. The
summer sun peeped in at the half open
blinds, slanted across the floor. fingered on
the eastern walls, and passed away. The
evening shadows gathered, night fell gently
over the summer world but he did not
move. He remained undisturbed. for no
one suspected that room was occupied. Per-
haps he slept little as he sat there on her
chair, his head resting on-her Bible; perhaps
he thought through the long pight of men tai
pain. The morning sun shone on hair heavi-
ly streaked with silver, the burning heart
had frozen in its agony, and its frosts
threaded the brow and ploughed burrows of
| weary care on the handsome face. Thirty
summers seemed changed to threescore. He
made no efforts 10 trace the false. fascinating
Lou, and spends many of his leisure hours
in trying to teach Baby Bessie to walk in
the footsteps of her sanity mother, Jennie
Wilbur inwardly praying her last sad step
may never be hers, that the moral stamina
of the man she weds may be strong enough
| to float him over the dark waters of sin, and
| that he may always have sufficient courage
| to Immediately fly temptation.
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