The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1885-08-23

1t was late at night. The fire had gradually

mass fred giving plenty Of heat but little flame
The shaded lamp from the edge of the table
threw a circle of light, widening until it reached
the floor, where it lay, luminous Disc and left
eli outside in sombrs gloom. The room was
evidently library, as tall cases of books doomed
from each wall and the massive table in the
centre was strewn with pamphlets and writing
materials. On low chair, near the fire, partly
IN light and partly in darkness, sat woman.
She might have been about forty FIVE years Of
age, and was still beautiful Her hands. with
The fingers interlaced, rested upon her lap, and
her head leant, YEARLY against the side of the
mantepiece Her attitude, even without the
traces of recent tears upon her face, betokened
extreme grief.
Well indeed might she erieve, for in the room
above her lay a dead man-her husband She
had babe her household leave her and retire to
rest, and hour after hour sounded as she sat by
the fire and mourned in solitude.
True the man who had died that day had not
been her first love; not the one she had once
hoped was destined to link his lot with hers She
had married him from esteem, friendship re-
spect, and many other admirable reasons; but
her heart was with one who had died many years
ago. Yet they had been man and wife for
twenty years, and his unwaver;ng love- his
kindness, the homage he had ever paid her, had
earned, as with woman they ever must their
reward; and as with sorrowful eyes she gazed
into the fire. and lived again those twenty placid
years, she felt that Death had that day decreed
q void in her life which would never again be
filled.
And yet the dead man had not been the most
cheerful companion to a woman in the prime of
health and beauty He was ever sad, at times
gloomy; but no harsh words to her had ever
crossed his lips, even in his most dreary moods.
He had lived fair and noble life doing in
quiet, secret way much good in the place his life
was spent; good, the extent of which she, per
haps, only knew. And as she thought of these
things and of the poor white face upstairs,
another food of tears came to her relief She
would see it more, tonight, and by the
side of that motionless form kneel down and say,
IF have not loved you as your heart wished,
have done all that could; all that promised"
With this intention she rose from her seat and
rising, an object on the mantelpiece attracted
her attention. 1t was small key; and that
morning, even as he died, her husband, with
feeble fingers had placed it in her hand, whs-
aering, with yearning look on his wan face,
''Read and forgive"
In the agitation of that terrible hour she had
taken little notice of those mysterious words
tie last, indeed, he spoke-but now she remem-
bered them, and felt there was something he
wished her to know.
The key, she was aware, gave access to a
aecretaira in which her huchapd liant his nrvata
papers. She raised the shade from the lamp,
and its light, hitherto concentrated, spread over
and Illuminated the ROOM in one corner of which
stood black-wanut bureau with antique brass
handles. She opened. it, and after a few
moments search found what she knew intui-
lively was the document designed for her perusal
1t was bulky packet sealed and Addressed
"For my wife. Private"
Wondering, even in her grief what its con-
tents could possibly be and why the instructions
80 read it were coupled with that piteous appeal
Cor forgiveness, she returned to her former seat
and, after adjusting the light, broke open the
seals and commenced the perusal of the manu-
script Womanlike, she turned over several
pages rapidly as if to catch some idea of the
general tenor of the revelation, and as in the
eursory glance she took she saw one name a
well-known name, written frequently, feeling
of fear thrilled her, and with low cry of pain
and horror she set her lips firmly and with
eager eyes devoured the closely written lines
The message from the man who lay dead ran
thus:
My Wife-When you read this I shall be dead
and you will, have little doubt, be still in the
prime of womanhood. Whether the love have
ever borne you, whether the remembrance of
those years spent, at least happily, under this
roof together will enable you after reading this
to think of me without cursing my name know
not. Yet | dare not die and make no sign
dare not let the grave cover the secret which is
fretting my life out--which has twined for years
around my heart like snake, and which will at
last still its beating-a secret that even you in
your widest dreams never suspected.
AS you read these pages you will weep, but
not for me- You will call for one who can never
return, but the name you utter will not be mine
Widowed though you be, it is not your husband
you will mourn. Yet when this is written my
mind will be more at ease, although know the
confession, which may tighten my remorse
dttle lays heavy burden on you At least
forgive me this
How shall begin? As sit here tonight. a
prematureiy aged man, look back through the
long years-so long, so weary to me-and see
myself in this same room, young man of
twenty-iv with all that could make life pleas
ant at my command Riches and friends-youth
and health-and as 1 tondly hoped at the time,
love, that sooner or LATER would be mine Here
sat, l remember, one winters night, with my
favorite companions even then, my books. Was
Ireading. or was dreaming of what might bel
know not.
My servant entered and handed me a card
"Mr Gerald Gordon"-I shall feel, even in my
grave your heart throb AS you read that name
Eerald Gordon had been one of my earliest and
dearest friends; and, If lost sight of for some
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