The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1885-05-03


| added that it was only a flicker in the socket
| only question of time-a day or two, perhaps
an hour or two. Oliver had revulsions of pity,
attended with loathing which he could scarcely
keep under. He had to suffer himself to be
drawn towards her, to feel his neck encircled by
her arms, to listen to her as long as he could
bear it, as she told him how often she had
| thought of him; how she had never loved
| any man but he, how she had felt that she
could not die in peace till she had seen
| him again. It required all his pity for her to
| strengthen him for these confessions, to enable
him to meet that meretricious smile, those ghast-
| ly little tricks Of fascination which he could re-
| member to have laughed at even in other times
| How horrible they were to him now no words
| could say. He went through the same miserable
/ streets daily till he shuddered at his own errand
heart in spite of himself the hope that he might
| hear that AL was over His mind revolted
| against this With self-indignation and rage
against all that had brought it about, against the
wrong done to the most miserable of human
creatures by Wishing her death, and against
himself for the weakness which had brought
him into this strait. To live with nc desire so
| strong in him that this poor girl should
die, to make his way to the poor little
house that sheltered her. day by day,
| sick with hope that he might hear she was
dead! Oh, what was this but murder--murder
| never coming 10 any execution, but involved in
| every thought. But then there came upon this
| unhappy man something more dreadful still the
moment in which new thought sprang up in
him-the thought that it was not to be over,
that she was not going to die, that the flicker in
| the socket of which the doctor had spoken was
| the film g in of oil to the fame the rising of
new force and life. When this thought occurred
| to him, what with the horror of the possibility
and the horror of knowing that he grudged that
possibility, and would take life from her if he
could, divers cup seemed full; despair took pos
] session of him. Everything grew dark in heaven
and earth. She was going to live, not to die;
and what OH what, most miserable of men, was
he to do! The first thing was change in her
phrases when she talked to him of her own de-
| votion, of her longings after him.
81 knew as it would give me chance for my
| life if could see you once again"
1t had been at first only to die in peace after
she had seen him that she proposed And when
his eyes, quckened with horrible suspicios, be-
gan to note more slowly, he perceived that her
voice was stronger, that her emaciation was not
so great nor her breathing so difficult. She was
going to i've not die; and what was to become Of
himY What was he to dos
All this time and it went on quickly gliding
| by, day after day, and week after week. he
scarcely could tell how, he was receiving letters
and calls back, and anxious inquiries and ap-
peas from those he had left behind Grace
| wrote to him first letter of simple love aud
anxiety, hoping his friend was better, anticipat-
| ing news from him; then more serious, fearing
that his friends illness was grave indeed,
| that he absorbed in nursing, but
begging for word then growing alarmed that
| something should have happened to him. then
| with an outburst OF feeling entreating to know
| what it meant, implor1ng him only to tell her,
was there reason, even If he could not say
what that reason was Then silence But even
| this lasted but for few days. She wrote again
to say that she could not believe he had changed,
that it was to her incredible; but should it be So
| irnploring to know from himself that it was so.
The dignity and the tenderness and the high
trust and honor which would not permit any
pettiness of offense went to his very heart He
sent her a few miserable lines in reply, implor-
1ofx~
me out" he said, 'the sins l acknowledged to
you. But oh! for the love of God, do not aban-
don me, for then shall lose all hope"
He got from her in return two lines, II will
| never abandon you unless l have it from your
own hand that I must" And then no other
word.
But Trix piled him with a tho usand What
did he mean flying like this from his betrothed,
and his family, and all his prosperity? What
did he mean, what was Ills reason what in the
name of all that was foolish was he thinking of?
Did he mean to break his word to give up his
engagement, to break all their hearts? What
| was its What was it? What was itl
He left her letters at last unopened He could
make answer to them. He could give no
| explanation. Every day he had hoped that
perhaps = perhaps. And cow that this
less disposed to write than ever If it
should be as God forgive him. he feared, what
was there in store for himg What could he do?
The veins of his eyebals seemed to fill with
| a
blank sinking void opened before him; he could
perceive only that he would be swallowed up in
| it, swept beyond sight and knowledge; but for
| the others who loved him he did not know how
to reveal to them the terrible cause.
| During all this time of suspense he was very
| kind to the woman to whom he had linked him
self like the living to the dead. He got her
everything she wished for, delicate food, fine
wine, all that could afford a little ease to her
body or amusement to her mind. Such forms of
kindness are appreciated in regions where life is
more practical than sentimental. The mother
and sister sang his praises die! no. he don't
want you to die" they said what would he
send you all these nice things for, and feed you
up. and get YOU that water bed that cost such
deal of money, if he wanted you to die. But
you're that exacting now you're Mrs Wentworth
| that you can't be content"
| I'm Mrs. Wentworth; that's one thing mono
can take from me-" she said
He heard her as he came up the narrow stair,
| trying else did to make as little noise
as possible, and that wave of loathing which
sickened his very soul came him. How
horrible it all was, incredible, impossible, that
| she should bear that name, that it should be
banded about in place like ths-his mothers
name, his wife's Ali but it was she who was
his wife, This was the evening when she said
to him: II feel 1 am really getting better,
Oliver. believe I'll cheat the doctors yet and
it will all be your doing, dear. You'll take me
abroad, and my lungs will come right, and we
shall be as happy as the day is long"
He made no reply, but avoided the hand with
which she tried to draw him to her and asked
few questions of her mother, then babe her good
night He met the doctor as he was going down
stairs, and waited to hear his bulletin. The
parish doctor had found his manners, which had
only been put aside when there was no need for
such vanities; buthe was not used to fine words.
He said
''That wife of yours is a wonderful woman; it
seems as if it might be possible to pull her
through after all. She has such pluck and spirit,
and that's half the battle"
'You told me, said Wentworth, with stern
ness which was almost threatening, that there
was no hope of recovery"
''You don't seem best pleased with my good
news" said the doctor with a laugh. 'As for
hope of recovery there wasn't scrap in her
then state. And her life isn't worth a pinch of
snuff even now; but with a husband that can