The Columbian. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1866-1910, 1883-11-30

is my loss. You shall Judge, Mr.. Cor
don, il you will. / will tell you the
story of my life"
She was silent for minute, looking
past me with distended eyes.
81 was an only child, and never
knew my parents. My mother died in
giving me birth, my father followed
six months after My only relative,
an uncle, was unmarried, and he sent
me the.to Convent des Petits Oiseaux at
Treilles. There / remained until |
was seventeen years of age, poorly fed,
poorly clad, aud badly taught, or, to
tell the truth, not taught at all grow.
ing up amid universal neglect and de-
spite. | often wonder now, looking
back at that dreary time, that lived
through it, and oftener still | wish that
had not. AT seventeen / was taken
from the convent TO be married to my
late husband, M. Malines. l can re-
member with what feelings | received
the news of my approaching release.
was going to exchange prison for
paradise, q loveess existence for one
sanctifed by love. | believed men
loved their wives then, Mr.. Gordon /;
| was only seventeen. That was my
first disilusion. The world remem-
bers my late husband with reverence as
scholar and man of genius; his
wife remembers him with loatEing, as
a cruel and niggardly tyrant. By
marrying him exchanged one prison
for another; the neglect of many for
whom had no feeling for the neglect
of one whom l strove to love and hon
or, but who repelled me with cold
suspicion. AT the convent had been
despised for my poverty; in the world
/ was received with fulsome fattery,
the need of my high position and my
husbands wealth. l wore jewels
duchesses envied, drove horses which
were the admiration of Paris, lived on
the Boulevard des Italiens, and at the
grand hotels of Nice and Baden; and
| went to bed in the dark to save the
expense of candle, and spent the
greater part of my mean allowance of
pocket money in supplementing my
meagre meals served on solid silver by
half dozen fiunkeys."
She spoke of these sordid details of
her married life with perfect calm of
voice and manner, with only the slow.
burning fire in her eyes to speak the
passionate contempt she felt.
81 had at hand the remedy which
other women in my then position often
take. have been told that l have
more than the common share of beau
ty often enough to believe it, and
such love as the brainless gd,adi'as who
throng Partisan drawing,rooms have
to give, such love as our novelists
write of so fowingly, l might have
had. might have seen the initials of
my name filled up with asterisks in
the Garnet Dun Mondain, in COM
pany with the names of counts and
barons in pleanty. Will you believe
me, Mr.. Gordon--I find it difficult to
belive myself sometimes, remember
ing that time-that l was true to my
husband in word, and deed, and
thought
There was no capacity of vulgar
crime in the soul which found expires
sion in her eyes, and / believed her.
She went on with her story camly
still.
"The uncle OF whom have spoken
was rich. had been taught so well,
by him and others, that creature in
my friendless condition should be only
too thankful for any help at all, that
the idea that some part of his riches
might have been used for the softening
of my hard lot at the convent never
crossed my mind. / was grateful for
the care which had found me even so
mean an asylum from actual hunger
and nakedness which would, l was
taught to believe, have been my por-
ton but for my uncle. Well, Mr.. Cor
don, l learned by his death-bed confes-
sion, when the cowardice which he, and
the priest who attended him, called re-
pentance, forced him to confess the
wrong he had done me, that my parents
had been rich, and that their wealth
was mine, and that he had robbed me
of it. That, so far, Mr.. Gordon, has
been my experience of men my only
kinsman, the brother of my dead faith,
er, robbed me of my childhood my
husband robbed of my youth ; and now
when womans life should be just be-
ginning, mine is ended.
"We are such fools, we women" sht
went on, with self-scorn very terrible
to see, 'that to the end of the chapter
let us be deceived as we may, we mus
love and hope for love. know your
errand here. can guess pretty fairl,
the means you will uss to fulfill it. Yol
will pay me the doubtful complimen
of saying that your friend is unworth,
of me. You cannot know that bette
than l. 1t is emblematic of my Who'll
love upon creature whom l despise
| 1t is more emblematic still that tn
shadow of happiness seek in hir
should be denied me. / have told yo
| despise him l do but l love hin
too. Oh, Mr.. Gordon, think wha
that means and have some pity fo
me-
The motion with which she made t.
appeal-an emotion which touched m
deeply-had faded from face and voic
before she had spoke again, though til
pause was but short one.
81 have already learned to know so
row and disappointment 80 well, an
have learned, too, to appreciate at the
true value those illusions which ha
J pier people have but to believe to co
r vert into realities, that no sorrow
a disappointment that life may have
:. store for me can hurt me much. The
can be no question between such o.
as | and any creature who has yet
e learn what life means This girl-Wi
l. ter's .tiancee know her too 7"
81 have known her all her life. l q
h her guardian"
"She loves him =
l. dearly"
Sand her!"
! hesitated in reply. Madame n
lines smiled bitterly.
"You are delicate, Mr.. Gordon, wi
out cause. He does not love me.
l would marry me, perhaps but |
i L 4