The Lambertville record. [volume] (Lambertville, N.J.) 1872-1968, 1883-11-28
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Wednesday, Nov. %, 1888.
A DOUBLE TREACHERY.
CHATTER XII.
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burned until the morning sun shamed its
feeble rays. He had small room, closely
resembling the one in which he had lived
with Frank. He worked constantly; but
alas! youth and hope were gone, and with
them all the charm of the old life To be
sure, Frank and Mrs. George were still left
him; their love and their friendship were
real, and Of these two he could think with
out sadness. Annie environed him with
kindly attentions, and Frank wrote con-
stantly. AS he never spoke Of Sylvia, Flor
ence felt sure that some one had told him
all that had happened and, in his turn, he
equally avoided any allusion to the humil-
iating subject.
"When / can summon him homer was
Florence's constant thought. 1t was his
only ambition; first, to place the manufac-
tory on solid basis, and then to recall
Frank, and pass the remainder of his life
with him. The days were all much alike;
every morning he descended to the work.
rooms, where the respect he inspired, his
serious face, and decided manner, had re-
stored order and discipline.
For some time there had been much
gossip in regard to Sylvia's disappearance.
Some said she had eloped with lover,
others that Florence had driven her away.
But the thing that disturbed both Of these
beliefs was the position assumed towards
each other by the former partners Some
times, however, when they were alone to-
gether, Florence had q sudden access Of
rage as he remembered how those lips had
lied to him-those eyes betrayed him.
Then he felt q mad longing to seize George
by the throat, and crush his very life ont.
But the thoughts of Annie always re-
strained him. Should he be less courage
GUS, less strong than that frail wonlanf
Neither Mrs. Speed nor her husband sus-
pected these thoughts; they simply saw
restraint and GOODNESS that were not al
together natural. The operatives were
uneasy under the glance Of his steel-blne
eye, and felt reverence for his grey hairs,
for he had grown very grey and very
thin.
Thanks to him, the old bell of the fac
tory had resumed its ancient authorityj
and Florence, kind and considerable as he
was TO the industrious. allowed no in
fringement Of rules On the last day Of
every month Mr.. Chip made his appear
ance, and as punctually was paid three
quarters Of Florences salary, retained by
Job for that purpose. Once or twice Mrs.
Chipp, who sincerely loved and pitied her
son-in-law, made an attempt to see him,
but the mere sight Of her well-known
shawl put him to fight. Was it that the
courage with which he armed himself was
more apparent than reall Did the remem-
brance of his wife never leave himl
ssWhat had become Of herf" he asked
himself constantly; .'where was shef"
He wished that Job Denman would speak
TO him Of her; and that letter, above all,
that letter which he had not the courage
to open, haunted him. waking and sleep
ing. Had he dared, he would have asked
Job for it, One day the temptation was
too strong. He was alone in the Office, the
old cashier had gone to his lunch, leaving
"a most unheard- of thing-his key in the
desk. Florence could not resist this; he
opened the secret drawer, but the letter
was not there. Job had placed it in some
safer place, or perhaps meant to avoid ex-
aetly what had now taken place. In re-
atty Florence was glad Of this, for he
knew only too well that when he read
that letter his resignation and apparent
serenity would come to an end. He man
aged to endure the week; he rose early
and worked hard, and at night slept the
sleep of utter exhaustion. But Sundays
were inexpressibly painful to him, the
deep silence that pervaded the building
left him leisure to think. Sometimes he
tried to draw, to invent new combinations
Of flowers and foliage; but, while he
moved his pencil, his thoughts rioted in
the past. He thought Of his utter blind
ness, Of his laughable simplicity. of his ir-
retrieyable shame and misfortunes, until
his whole soul quivered with pain.
Oh, those fearful Sundays! Remember
that he sprang from the working classes,
that he had all their love for that day as
a day of rest and Of simple, quiet enjoy
ment. Had he gone out, the sight of an
artisan with his wife and child would have
stabbed him like knife but his seclud-
ed, solitary life preserved him from these
pangs.
Often in such sad moments the door
would open, and Annie Speed appear. The
desolation of this poor man on these long
Sundays filed her heart with compassion,
and she came with her little girl, know
ing by experience that children have q
strange power Of soothing sore and ach-
ing hearts. The child ran to her friends
with shouts of delight. Florence heard
the little huilying steps, and turning,
would take her in his arms. feel her soft
kisses ON his cheek, and her dimpled
hands smoothing his worn brow land then
he grew calmer.
..Come," Annie would say, with a gentle
smile-"Come into the garden with us; it
is so fresh and lovely. You work too
much, my friend"
my work is my best friend Mrs. Speed (;
il keeps me from thinking"
"But you must try to forget Mr.. Flor
ence."
"Is that possible2 One may forgive,
but not forget"
Almost always the child succeeded in
dragging him away-he must play with
her; but soon his gravity even struck the
child, and she learned TO walk quietly at
his side through the wer-beds bordered
with box. After few moments. Florence
almost forgot her presence, but the soft
little hand in his own exercised u magical
charm over his shattered heart.
"One may forgive but not forget!'
Poor Annie recognized the melancholy
truth of these words, for she had forgotten
nothing, while she carefully filed every
duty. She, as well as Florence, was sur
rounded by everything that could keep
her wound open. The staircase and gar
den recalled sometimes almost unbearable
recollections. Even the, care taken by
her husband to spare her these painful
associations, the habit he had adopted OF
always passing the evenings with her. the
care he took always TO tell her where he
had been, whom he had seen, only served to
keep alive the memory Of his fault. She
sometimes longed to cay TO him: do less
say less!'
SOuiutnCe WIS ueSttpltus " BdliiSti
smile told the story of her sufierings
George was miscrably unhappy. At
last he had learned to love his wife. The
generosity of her nature, the strength of
her character, had taken him captive. Her
cool reserve acted upon his frivolous
tastes like the caprices Of a coquette. He
had always found his wife too loving, too
tender. She was always the same, while
Sylvia was full Of changes; one day she
quarrelled with him, the next she was
Jealous and exacting, the third indifferent.
The peaceful serenity Of his wife's affec-
ton wearied him. Besides, he had hither-
to been sure of It +; now he felt that Annie
was Indifferent. and that the only tie be-
tween them was their child. Yet he did
not altogether despair.
OF Sylvia, he rarely il ever thought
and this sudden thought was not SO amaz-
ing as 1t seemed. In these two superficial
natures there was nothing that could in
sbire profound attachment; George was