The Arkansaw traveler., 1885-04-11


 walking tour just twelve months before under the shadow of hopeless and des- perate love. As he paced up and down his study, there was no thought of his dead wife in his heart. His whole being vas occupied with Sydonie. He still felt the clasp of her hand in his; her eyes still looked into his; her words still lin- ge-ed ;z his eazs.
 I tell you paced up and down, This garret crowned with love's best crown, And feasted with love's perfect feast.
 He began quoting the words almost unconsciously, and then broke short with a happy laugh.
 My Sydoniel So far from killing body and soul, and hope and .ane,' you will help me to the perfection of all-my dear, dear loveF
 He was too much agitated to write or read tonight. He ~ould look over her letters-those letters which had lain un- touched since he had received and shut away her last words, bidding him forget his love for her. With happy smile at the contrast between now and then, he unlocked his writing-table drawer. and opened it. But his mood suddenly changed, for the letters, instead of lying in an orderly heap, were loosened from their band, and were scattered about the drawer. One lay open as if it had been thrown down half read. With the terrible consciousness of a man who feels the first cold wave from rushing tide which will ultimately swallow up and destroy him he rang the bell. The housemaid who answered it was startled at his look, and still more at the imperious manner with which he pointed to the drawer.
 "Who has touched this during my ab- sence The papers have been dis turbed"
 "No one has been near it, sir. have never left the house-no, not for an hour since you went away"
 "Some one must have touched it, tell you"
 The maid looked puzzled; then her brow cleared.
 "Oh, sir-yes. beg your pardon it was Mrs. Dalzell. One day while you was away she said she was going to put your papers tidy for you, and l saw her begin at that table,
 1t could not have been so," he said, with his deadly sense of cer- tainty "the drawer was locked"
 "She said one of her keys opened it, sir, and dare say she forgot to put the things tidy, as she was taken ill just alter ward"
 He signed her 10 leave him-he knew she spoke the truth-tLere was no need for him to search for the little bunch Beatrice had carried about with so much housewifely pride; no need to fit one of her keys and turn it in the lock; for he knew all that had happened as clearly as if he had been at her side and seen her frozen look of terror as she read those words of his. There they all were-Sy- donie's love-letters, with the last which she wrote to him two days before he had spoken his first words of love to Beatrice, bearing the ill-fated witness of its date. He seemed by the exaltation of his feel ing to realize what she must have suffered when she stood where he was standing now. A distant footstep reused him he how she had paced up and down her room to quiet the pain," and he knew now against what she had strug- gled-whAt pain she had carried with her into the silence of the grave.
 Sydonie's last letter lay open, as if the reader had closed the drawer upon it, unable to finish or to touch it; but those words, The more am convinced of the truth of your statement that you do not love her er-that you never have loved her," stared him in the face, and he could guess with what terrible significance they must have blazed out to his wife. He fell upon his knees with his head upon his hands, for he realized, or thought he realized, all the suffering he had inflicted upon an innocent heart, whose only fault had been its love for him. He thought he realized all; but to appreciate the possibilities of suffering which lie in a human soul one must share something of its purity and singleness of purpose. Nevertheless his agony was a sharp one i; he seemed to look at the past in 8 differ ent light-to see his conduct as it must have looked to her whose heart had broken when she understood it. He pushed the drawer suddenly and roughly away ; as he did so something round and glittering rolled from among the papers and fell to the floor. He picked it up and laid it in the palm of his hand. As he did so he saw it was his wife's wedding-ring, for which he he had instituted a vain search. He knew how it came there before death had pronounced its final and irrevocable decree, Beatrice had sep arated herself from him. And then, re- the smile on those pale lips now silent forever-which had never opened to accuse or reproach him, he cried aloud in his anguish for some sign of forgiveness from one who could not answer him.
 
 There is a second Mrs. Daizell now. who occupies her position far more worthily than her predecessor, while from the worlds memory the fact of Beatrice's existence has almost faded. It knows much, however, of Leonard's successes, and more of his disappointments than he lmagines: but it does not guess the real bitterness of his life or the readiness with which he would sacrifice alike his suc- cess and his happiness to hear three words from lips that were once indifer-