Semi-weekly south Kentuckian. [volume] (Hopkinsville, Ky.) 1883-1889, 1886-08-13

tries that hung against the walls.
Once more tried to call out; but my
tongue seemed dried up, and my voice
refused to be heard. Presently, TO my
relief I heard q human voice. 1t evi-
IDENTIFY came from an apartment beyond
the one into which | had ventured I'm
PEELED, | hardly knew how, resolved
to venture farther; and as my footsteps
fell noisclessly on the thick carpets, l
could hardly believe that l was not wan
dcring in dream through tho myste-
rious chambers of tho dead.
Yet more and more distinctly l heard
the sad low voice that had caught my
car; and l approached stealthily, and l
confess with something like awe, the
door, which, as l perceived, opened
from the bedroom to the chamber whencs
the voice proceeded. Here, as before,
a curtain OF antique tapestry, reaching
from the ceiling to the floor, concealed
the aperture; and trying cautiously the
door, l found that it opened toward me-
This gave me time to reflect before in
truding, with stcalthy steps, in the dead
Of night, into the privacy of this inner
most chamber Like a guilty creature,
| stood and listened The voice for
there seemed to be but one close at
hand. 1t was a strangely melancholy
voice, yet possessing fascinating power
that chained me to the spot.
"Will you never, never speak to me
again, my darling, my darling. >" heard
the words too plainly TO mistake or for
get them. "Will you never speak to
mo again! Year after year, as the day
comes round, l have prayel to God to
grant me but one sweet word--ono word
to tell me of your love! Oh, my dar-
ling, my darling, have lpraycd in vainp ?
viii those lips never again open with a
smile, those eyes never again look into
mine, even when l come to you on my
knees. as do this Christmas morning!'
These strange words reproachcd me.
Into what sacred precincts had in
trudcd? What heart breaking grief was
| desecratingp
Suddenly the tone of voice changed.
The sad pathos gave way 10 accents OF
JOY. "Sce! see, my beloved one; here
are gifts worthy of queen. Did not
tell you that the time would come when
all our struggles would BE- over; when
there would b. no, more fighting for
very bread; no moro daily care; no
more dread of the future; no fears for
success, because it would be already
mine! All, Gertrude, my wife, my
darling, you were good and patient to
me in those days. If the clouds were
dark, your eyes were always bright; II
the heavens were overcast, your smile
drove away the storm; your voice was
the music of my life, your oeasoless
trust was my lodcstar. But all has
changed. Those days have passed. l
am rich now; they say | am famous.
The day is now too short for my work,
and the night too short for rest. And
yet need rest | feel l cannot live
much longer if | maynot rest. My brain
is ever rceling with Its woariness, yet
can not sleep, Night after night Is one
long vigil. No slcop, no rest, no peace
l have boon waiting for this night, for
you, my love, for you! And now the
hour has come. II is Christmas morn
ing Hark! already hear the sound Of
the Christmas bells. All! no wonder
for my wife, my beloved, hns come bach
to me at last--oome back TO mo from
the dcadr
In feverish excitement, listened. Bal
thore was no answer-not n sound wher
that trembling voice ceased to break thu
stiffness of the night
Presently it began aga'n. They tel
me it is thirty yoa"s ago. Nonsense
That is only dream. 1t was ycstcr
day yesterday, that you spoke to nj
for the last tim3-ycs!erday, that you
badc me goodbye, and kissed me when
went away And to-day you are as
you were then. No change, no change.
none at all. You are as young and as
far as when / first took your hand in
mine and called you wife"
Then there was pause, and wa,
conscious of some movement beyont
the tapestry behind which was guilty
hiding.
What followed startled me, but il
called me back to life. With vo'cC
thrilling with emotion, the man once
moro broke the silence. Gertrude
These are yours. This is your birthday,
and our old wedding-day, and have
not forgotten you. You do not yet be.
lieve that am rich and famous, and
that your husband has many friends
See! These are gifts from those whom
have rescued from death! They are
thank-oforings to the doctors wife
Here is n bracelet II is set with emer.
| aids. No rarer could be found. Ali
how charming it looks on that dainty
wrist! And here is something a princess
might wear. 1t Is tiara of diamonds
and it is yours, Ah my wife, let inc
|, place it on your brow! Oh, my queen,
my queenr'
Unable to restrain myself longer,
cautiously drew aside the tapestry and
} peered into the chamber beyond it. II
was comparatively small, but richly
furnished, though in the fashion of old
en- times. 1t was, ! thought, a lady'S
t boudoir; but from where | was con,
coaled, only q portion of the room was
revealed to my view. It was not the
room that arrested my attention, hui
what it contained. On q small table,
almost within reach, lay those very or
naments-the earrings, the nccklet, the
pondant-of rub!es and pearls, the loss
of which had first led me to unravel, il
| could, the mystery of the great jewe
robbery. could not be mistaken. The
description given me had been mos
minute. An exact counterpart of the
set was not in existence; and here it lay
on the table before me.
As looked on with astonishment,
from the part of the room l could moi
sec there approached me, slowly ant
with pensive step and bowed head, like
one walking in his sleep, the man whom
| now almost dreaded to see--the fam,
GUS doctor, Gideon West.
Could he be the author of those mys-
ter,ous theftsp l could not believe it
and yet the proofs of his guilt lay before
me. No longer hesitating, stepped
forward. So sudden and SO unexpected
was my appearance that the man waI
unconscious of my presence until / hat
placed my hands upon his arm ant
gasped in trembling tones: "Dr. Wes
-I-arrest-" But the sentence was
never completed,
With cry that might have been hearC
almost in tho grave, the unhappy mar
shrank from me, At that instant
turned in the direction to which he wa.
nointinu with that oponizad lnnk unor