St. Johnsbury Caledonian. [volume] (St. Johnsbury, Vt.) 1867-1919, 1888-02-09
LIFE AND DEATH.

AS WAS "dihluS GHTOuSn DOStOu
common one morning, L met a man in
the grand vista of the park. Though
on my walks l am generally lost in
thought, the countenance of this man
at once attracted my attention. His
eyes were dim, and his gray hair fell
carelessly over his shoulders. While
his eyes and hair seemed to be those
of a man of sixty, his whole appearance
showed him to be hardly thirty years
old. He was evidently an American
at least, to judge from his face, fol
the physiOgnOmy of an American is
unmistakable. He was certainly a
man who had seen a great deal of the
world.
"This man has had an eventful life,
said ], in scarcely audible tone Chow
| should like to know the history of it. ,
''If that is So" said voice at my
side, which | at once recognized as
that of my friend, Mr.. A., 81 can tell
you the history of this man, and should
be surprised if you knew man whose
history can compare with his"
"Do you know him, then 7"
81 do not know him personally, but
am acquainted with peculiar event
in his life l was in Paris at the time
his corps was buried"
"Buriedq"
"Well, not strictly speaking, but
still something of the kind. If you
have a half hour to spare, let us take a
seat on that bench, and | will tell you
the story which created great sensa-
ton in Paris several years ago."
The following is the story as related
to me by my friend:
In a room in Paris which had but
one window, sat three persons. Mon
sieur Dorine was reading The Journal
DIES Debdts, his back turned to the sofa,
on which sat Mademoiselle DOrine and
young American gentleman. The
joyful cOuntenance of the latter show
ed plainly in what relationship he was
to the Dorine family. There was on
this afternoon no happier person in all
Paris than Philip Wentworth. Life
for him was so full of joy, that he al
most feared the next day might bring
a change.
What more could the future bring to
him? But what could it not rob him
off
The greatest joy is always coupled
with sadness, with certain indescrib-
able presentiment of evil. Wentworth
felt this strange thing come over him,
as he pressed the hand of Julia Dorine
to his lips and took his leave.
Monsieur Dorine laid aside the pa
per and approached him. eff the
house answers to Mr.. Chesborough's
description" said he, 81 advise you to
buy it without delay. l would like to
accompany you, Philip, but 1 must
confess | am too much grieved at the
loss of my little bird to help you in
choosing a cage. Meanwhile do not
forget that the last train returns at 5
o'clock. We have tickets, you know,
for SardOu's new comedy, which is to
be played tomorrow evening"
The next morning the train brought
Philip Wentworth to charming little
town in the vicinity of Paris. A beau
tiful vista half mile long, led to the
villa of CherbOnneau. The man walk
ed from one room to another, then Wis
tied the stable, and beautiful lawn in
front of the house, the lovely little
wood, and after he had dined with Mr..
Cherbonneau, settled the purchase,
and wendell his steps to the depot in
order to be in time for the express
train.
When the evening twilight began to
set in and Paris appeared in the dis
lance, it seemed to the young man as
if he had been travelling a year. Ar
rived in the depot, he quickly betook
himself to his hotel, where he found
several letters on his table. But he
hardly looked at the addresses and
quickly changed his travelling costume
for an evening toilet.
His yearning desire to see MademOi-
selle Dorine made the journey appear
long and at last the coach halted be-
fore the house of Mr.. Dorine. The
door was opened as Philip mounted
the steps and the servant silently re-
lieved him of his overcoat and hat.
ais no one at home 2" he asked.
"Mr. DOrine cannot see yOn at this
moment" answered the servant, slow
ly. "He desires you to wait in the par
lor."
els MademOiselle-"
Eyes, SIR"
"Alone 2"
eyes, SIR" answered the servant with
a peculiar look. Philip could hardly
repress an exclamation of joy ; it was
the first time that such a privilege had
been allowed him. Hitherto his meet
ence of Mr.. Dorm or some other MEM
Der of the family. A well-bred Paris
ian lady makes a formal acquaintance
with her affianced. Philip did not stop
to consider for moment. He softly
opened the door of jules room. I'm
der the large chandelier stood a small
black coffin. A burning candle, cru
cifix, and few white flowers stood on
the table near by. Julie DOrine was
dead.
When Mr.. Dorine heard the shrek
of anguish, which broke the solemn
stiffness of the hour, he fastened to
the room and found Philip standing
like a statue in the centre Of the room.
1t was only after the lapse of some
time that Wentworth learned the full
particulars of the immeasureable mis-
fortune which had befallen him. The
previous evening Miss DOrine had be-
taken herself to her room, apparently
in perfect health. She had told her
maid to wake her early the next morn
ing. When the girl came at the APP
pointed time, Mile. Dorine sat in her
arm chair, where she had evidently
been overtaken by sleep. At her feet
lay book half-open. The maid was
terrified when she saw that the bed
was untouched, and that her mistress
had not yet laid aside her toilet. She
tried to awake her but in vain. She
was not asleep-but dead
Two letters were Immediately sent
to Philip, one to the depot in c.. and
the other to his hotel. The former had
reached its place of destination too
late the latter had not been opened
by Philip.
The wealth of the young lady, her
sudden death, and the romantic court