Wichita daily eagle. [volume] (Wichita, Kan.) 1884-1886, 1886-05-07

/ that springs from eQUAl mWoss euo VI 10
one occasion on which he spoke to me on M
sub;ect-for reserve bad sprung up between
us in the matter-I inferred, though be did
not stat. It in so many words, that be hoped
to make Lucy his wife immediately on
leaving Oxford. Shortly afterward, the
girl disappeared from her fathers homa
Certain circumstances threw suspicion On
Malet; nothing was nothing could be proved
against him; but, to tell the story briefly,
thought had reason to believe the worst,
and believed it All my incipient love
for the girl herself blazed up in . flame OF
passion and jealousy, and what held to be
righteous indignation at the story OF her
disappearance and of her parents despair
MaIet said very little; he gave me his word
that he had had nothing to do with the mat
tar: he saw that did not believe him, and he
said no more. /, on my side, broke with
him He had been my best friend; On
more than one occasion he had served me
in a way that should have won my indy
ing gratitude But what gratitude survives
a sense of wrong. And, indeed, held my
self not ungratefuf, but just
What storm of memories, old affection,
remorse, swept over me matters little now.
Where were doubts and past suspicionsi
Alas, that, living or dying, clearnes Of
vision should come to enlighten US at the
supreme moment only. / turned from the
window to the doctor.
@Can see him." said; he was the best
friend bad in the world
Certainly you can see him, he answered
81 rejoice indeed that you or any one be
longing to him should be here will take
you to him at onca He has little fever,
but is otherwise quite quiet; no acute suffer
ing, happily Nothing can harm him now"
He led the way as he spoke, up fight
after fight OF the shallow hotel stairs, and
down a long passage to o remote and silent
part Of the house At the end Of the pas
sage q door stood ajar. The doctor paused
before we reached it you will no doubt
wish to remain with your frieni.' he said
Undoubtedly" answered
He gave me one or two brief directions,
| then signing to me to wait for d moment,
opened the door and went in
He was alone He lay with closed eyes,
his hands spread out on the counterpane,
his head supported by pillows The night
was warm, and though tho little easement
stood wide open, he seemed oppressed by the
heat, and to breathe with difficulty. Ho
was not changed; in early youth even his
features had been too marked to alter read
| lily; only the lines with which l had been
| familiar had deepened, and the pallor OF
| mortal sickness overspread his countenance.
He opened his eyes as the doctors step
| approached his BEDSIDE
What time is it," he said feebly.
about half past 81 said the doctor. He
| laid his hand ON his patients wrist as he
| SPOKE and stood for q moment noting the
| pulse There is friend Of yours here,
| he said then, @who wants to see you /
have brought him up"
His forehead and mouth contracted pain
| fully for q moment "A friend Of mine!"
he said @But have no friends"
| ! came forward. His glance fell upon me
and was suddenly illuminated @Frank!"
| he cried
He held out both hands; Igraspcd them in
mine For long time we remained mo
tionless could not speak; in what words
| could address him after my lorg silencei
| And saw that he was dying.
| His hold relaxed at last The doctor had
| silently disappeared and we were alone Ii
was ne who spoke first You never be-
lieved me about Lucy, Frank, he said, look.
ing at me.
Don't speak of it," cried Il know that
| I was wrong, utterly wrong. want to tell
you that Never mind the rest"
aOn the contrary mind it very much"
| he said, in feeble voice. Il suspected at
| the time who was at the bottom Of Lucy's
disappearance, but could never bring it
home to him. 1 could never come upon a
trace Of her until few weeks ago, when
saw her by chance in Paris" His voice
sank and he failed little with weakness,
but in a moment he rallied and went on
| @She was living there with some French
man-never mind his name l hunted her
up and tried to persuade her to go home tn
her parents He resented my interference;
We fought-and here l am"
1t was tba.n cried, COMPOUNDED; "it was
on account Of Lucy!"
| "Poor child, poor grill" he murmured,
closing his eyes
stood speeches. for while For the
( first time | realized Malet's part in the duel
of which the doctor had spoken In face Of
his mortal nialady, had forgotten for the
moment that malady's CAUSE
@Wel" he said at last, as did not speak.
Good heavens, Ambrosel" l said, you
l are the last man, yes, the last man, in the
world slocld have thought would fight n
duel"
He smiled a little. why not" he said
Il had no intention Of killing the poor
l wretch WHO CuhiftuScu INT, NJ WIS SsaiS
enough from me-
But the sin of it" began
"Oh, the sin of 1.-THE sin of it" he said
~St down, Frank he went on, raising his
head and looking at me with smile by the
dim light o. the candle $50 you're par
son now, priest 1 suppose you would call
yourself, and you are going to save mems
souls Wen, you'll do a word Of good, old
| fellow, on. way or another. know so much
Of you
His head fell tact On the pillow. SHOVE
the light. will YOU" he said There is
nothing t. do, and it hurts my eyea We
| don't need a candle to talk by"
l rose and set the candle on deal table
in the passage outside. The door stood ajar
only a thread q light fell through the open
ing. But though the moon was on the
other side Of the house its suifused whiteness
filed the room, and through the open case
ment its light could be seen falling on a tr g
covered hill that, rising just behind the
hotel garden, defined its summit against the
pale summer heavens | took Ely place
again beside Malet's bed could see his
face plainly in the twilight rs he lay with II
turned toward tho window, his eyes
fixed on the sky. For long time he
was silent He spoke again, quite suddenly.
"You never believed me about Lucy" ho
mid
"For Gods sake, Ambrose, don't speak Of
that again. cried in anguish. Forgive
me, forgive mr. the loss Of all these years
| has heen mine"
NO, no. he said; at 10 no matter. All Is
| over now, and it is all one. Life, too, will
| lie over in few hours, and that is we'll
Strange he went on after pause, that
men shoald dread death rs they do. have
thought so always: now that I am dying l
think SO more than ever. To dread tho un-
known when to know the unknowablc is the
great and unattainable desire of life
Most men think otherwise l said; 'the
love OK life is strong"
"Yes yes, know it," he said. "and 1t is
better 50: i. should be So But something
has gone wrong between mo and life; l
have fels stranger In it always Death Is
| best
He lay quiet again for long whila His
breathing was difficult and oppressed Now
ard then the wind stirred the trees on the
hill outsi lie: the shadows slowly moved with
The advancing night: otherwise all was still
But presently he began to turn restlessly in
the led. the hands. hot with fever, strayed
over the counterpane When he spoke again
his mind was wandering little
Il suppose you go back TO Oxford at once,
Old fellow he said Il should like TO get
back there il it were only for a day. My
mother is dead, you know; poor mother.
The meadows down by the river; it would
be cooler there than here; we might have
another walk together. Lucy"
l.,s