Mower County transcript. [volume] (Lansing, Minn.) 1868-1915, 1880-08-25

wandered restlessly through the streets
10th to go back to the solitude of hi
chambers. He seemed to dread to b
alone, crayed for the sight of moving
animated life, and plenty of Light.
Once he asked himself if he were il
love with this sleeping beauty, as b
could never get her out of his thong hts
But he laughed at the idea.
| No; it was the singular stiffness ant
heavy air of that drawing room and al
It's surroundings, that was the cause
nothing else.
The third evening was worse than eth
er of the preceding two, or Leonard
Hartly was growing more irritable unde
the strain upon his nerves. He felt tina
he should like to cry out-perhaps will
an oath-at the gray-haired butler who
moved around like an inha bitant of the
other world.
But he put restraint on himself, re.
hecting with satisfaction that there was
but one more sitting, and then he would
be free.
latter that, she and her father are
going away" he mused-" wonder
where. I should like to see her again
when her eyes are open. It would be
pleasant to feel their ightshine on one. ,
The fourth and last evening arrived.
Like those who hasten to get not over
congenial task over, Leonard Hartley
was few minutes earlier than usual.
Everything was ready, however.
everything the same as previously, only
Mr.. Kesteven's manner had changed.
He was hurried, restless, nervous, and
he asked the artist if shorter sitting
would suffice that night.
can hour would be enough answer
ed Leonard Hartly, by no means re-
luctantly; and thinking, II suppose the
old gentleman breads his daughters
waking and detecting his little plot. |
wish she would; should like to see her
out of that dreadful sleep"
The painting had not proceeded a
quarter of an hour when the ghostly
butler, gliding in, whispered something
to his master, who, excusing his absence
for brief space to the artist, hur1iedly
left the room.
No sooner had he gone than Leonard
Hartley threw down his brush. It was
the first time he had ever been left. even
TOR moment, with the sleeping girl, and
an Irresistible impulse was upon him to
take closer inspection.
Rising, after cautious glance back at
the door, he approached the couch.
Why did he halt halfway, the color
falling from his face, and that express
sion, half doubt, half fear, in his eyes ?
A moment he stood. the beaded per-
SEPARATION on his forehead.
Then Selling the lamp from the table,
he advanced, trembling, and leaned over
the sleeper.
His hand touched hers.
It was icy cold!
Looking closer, what was revealed to
him?
The color on the cheeks was artificial!
the muscles of the mouth were drawn!
Leonard Hartley, with a cry of terror,
reeled back
"Great heavens!" he cried; "it is not
sleep-it's deathr'
Staggering, he could at first do no
more than, placing the lamp on the
table, stand gazing upon the girl.
He had been tricked-duped!
Then, suddenly he remembered Mr.,
kesteven's words:
" Mr.. Hartley, do you remember the
Conversations six weeks ago?'
Of course he did!
He saw it all now.
His words respecting the portrait of
the dead Gray had taken him to see had
been overheard, and, aware of his re-
this horrible, CHASTITY trick
had been put upon him.
For q brief while loathing, horror.
blended with fierce indignation, ragged
within him.
How should he meet his employer on
his return?
How could he give his anger vent in
the presence of his dead child.
Yet Hartley vowed never to put brush
again to that portrait, and religiously
kept his word.
Stay!
And sensation of humiliation came
over him.
Was he right, after all?
Was he not dipping himself ?--making
a terrible mistake?
If 50, into what an unpleasant position
might it lead him?
Mr.: ,Kesteven had said his child was
under the influence Of opiates.
That might account Tor the coldness-
though the artist did not think it.
If so, how absurd would have been his
anger?
But If note Then would it be iustifi-
able; almost-he did not know this de-
ception would be actionable.
How decide?
Selling penknife from the table pull
ing it open-regardless, in his anger, of
the consequences-app the girl,
he run this keen blade into her arm.
How white it was
Would blood come? Pray heaven,
yes!
No!-though, almost unconsciously he
had pressed the fesh-not the faintest
sigu!
It was, then not sleep-but DEATH
With cry of horror and indignation,
Leonard Hartley, turning, dashed toward
the door.
On the way, his foot struck against
low stool. He stumbled forward and
threw out his hands to catch some sup
port. His right had clutched but the
table cloth, and he fell, bringing the
vases, books, and the lamp crashing af-
ter him.
All was darkness.
He was alone with the dead!
Only for space. There were hurry
ing feet in the passage; the door was
thrown wide, and the artist heard Mr..
kesteven's voice exclaiming, in accents
Of terror and alarm, "Good gracious!
what has happened? Darkness! Clarke,
run, run, bring light! Oh, Heaven!
what can it be? Mr.. Hartly, where are
you?
"Here, sir" replied the artist, gath
ering himself up from the floor, as the
ghostly butler glided in with light.
Sc beg to say, Mr.. Kesteven he be-
gan, then paused abruptly, his eyes di-
lated by amaze, as, naturally. thew