Wessington Springs herald. (Wessington Springs, Aurora County, Dakota [S.D.]) 1883-1891, 1885-10-30
AT WHAT A COST!
The Message From the Grave of
Her Unloved Husband.

l. was late at night. The fire had grad
tally settled down until it became a steady
glowing mass OF red, giving plenty of
heat but little flame. The shaded lamp
from the eage of the table threw a circle
Of light, widening until it reached the
Aoor, where it lay, a luminous disc, and
left all outside in somber gloom. The
room was evidently a library, as tall
cases Of books loomed from each wall, and
the massive table in the center was strewn
with pamphlets and writing materials.
On a low chair, near the fire, partly in
light and partly in darkness, sat a woman.
She might be about forty five years of
age, M was still beautiful. Her hands,
with fingers interlaced, rested upon her
lap, and her head leant YEARLY against
the side of them antelpiece. Her attitude,
even without the traces of recent tears
upon her face, betokened extreme grief.
Well indeed might she grieve, for in the
"oom above her lay a dead man-her hus-
band. 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
Tor esteem friendship, respect and many
other admirable reasons; but her heart
was with one who had died many wears
ago. Yet they had been man and wife
tor twenty years, and his unwavering
love, his kindness, the homage he had
ever paid her, had earned, US with a wom-
an 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 a void in her life which would
never again be flied.
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 a fair and noble life, doing, in a quiet,
secret way, much good in the place where
his life was spent; good, the extent of
she thought of these things, and of the
poor white face upstairs, another food
of tears came to her relief. She would
see it once more to-night; and by the
side Of that m%otionless form kneel dow
and say, IF I have not loved G as your
all that l promised." With this intention
she rose from her seat, aud, rising, an OBJ
Ject on the mantelpiece attracted her at
tention. 1t was a small key; and that
morning, even as he died, her hus band,
with feeble fingers, had placed it in her
on his wan face: "Read and forgive"
In the agitation of that terrible hour,
she had taken little notice of those mys-
ferrous words-the last, indeed, he spoke
but now she remembered them, Il
1eitthere was something he wished her to
know.
The key, she was aware, gave access to
a secretaire in which her husband Kept
his private papers. She raised the shade
from the lamp, and its light, hitherto con.
cenirated, spread over and Illuminated
the room, in one corner of which stood q
black walnut bureau with antique brass
handles. She opened it, and after q few
moments search found what she knew
!ntuitlvely was the document designed
Tor her perusal. It was a bulky packet,
sealed and addressed-"For my wife.
Private."
Wondering, even in her grief, what its
contents could possibly be-, and why the
that piteous appeal for forgiveness, she
returned to her former seat, and after ad.
lusting the light broke open the seals ana
commenced the perusai OF the manu-
script. Womanlike, she turned over Sow
i Slal pages rapidly as If to eaten ras some
tlon, and as OF the cursory glance she
Took she saw one name, d we'll
name, written frequently, a feeling of fear
.4r;lled her, and with a low cry OF pam
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 snan
be dead, and you will, I have little doubt
S 1 still in the prime of womanhooa.
Whether The love I have ever borne you;
whether the remembrance of those years
spent, at least happily, under this root
ttosether, will enable you, after reaalng
shls, to think of me without curslng ny
Maine | know not Yet, I dare not ale
and make no sign. l dare not let the
grave cover the secret which is fretsing
my life out-which has twined Tor years
a:nund my heart like a snake, whLcn
will at last stop its ~beating--a secret that
even you in your widest dreams never
suspected. -,
"As you read these pages you viii
Weep; but not for me. You vii! carl loI
one who can never return, but the name
YOU utter viii not be mine. Wlao"eo'