Waterbury evening Democrat., 1888-05-04
THE WATERBURY EVENING DEMOCRAT. FRIDAY MAY A. lsss

 kind. She moves as if to leave him. AL most as she reaches the door, his voice stops her.
 stOne word," he says huskily. "Do not-do not be unkind to her! When am gone, do not show or feel resentment toward herl'
 He makes her sign with his hand to declare he has said all he had called her to hear, and ping out, she closes the door behind her.
 The sound of her retreating footsteps has died away. Heis alone! He stretches out his arms wearily, as one might who has just flung from him some cruel bur den, and drawing back the curtains, opens wide the window and gazes out upon the growing day. Already the sun has mounted the heavens, and from the ca tt soft rosy bars of tremulous light are de- scending upon the distant hill tops From among the laurels comes the thrilling music of innumerable birds; from the wood the cooing of the gentle pigeons. A rose that has climbed up the wall, moro ambitious than it's fellows, thrusts it's scented petals into his hand.
 Mechanically he accepts the gift, and breaking the flower from it's stem, inhales it's perfume. It is sweet with dew, and sweet as only morning rose can be, with all the cool moisture of the dead past night still on it, and buried in it's heart. Boyle, still as if without thought, having trif1ed with the flower, carries it to a table near and puts out his hand toward vase filled with water. The action rouses him. He checks himself, and @ after a brief pause filings the flower upon the ground. He had been about to place it in the water with a view to it's preservation when that revulsion of feeling came over him. To save it from instant destruction why? That he might see it upon the morrow? The morrow? Where will he be then?
 He sets his heel upon the flower and crushes it out of all loveliness. Death is rushing pward him on swift black wings shall that senseless flower be spared! It is 8 very poor, very paltry bit of malice, yet it erves him, and brings him again face to face with his indomitable resolve.
 Crossing the room, he opens a case lying upon a bureau and draws from it @ revolver. He runs his hand lightly over it, and the cool touch of the steel seems to steady him. Having assured himself that it is loaded, he lays it down again and turns to writing table.
 His hand is firm, the writing bold as ever. A few words, explaining where the famous sapphires (now dismantled and unseD may be found in his rooms i'll town, are addressed to his mother. Bold words, with no endearing commencement, no af fectionate termination. To him the sap- phires are of no further use. It is as we'll that Millicent should have them again.
 He filings the pen aside, and, rising to his feet, paces hurriedly up and down the room. He can walk now. But like flash it bursts upon him that soon move ment will be impossible. There upon the carpet he lies like stick-a stone! The great grand fever of living is tearing through his veins. His pulses throb, his heart beats there are years of life within the tall, slender, firmly built frame that looks its last through the open window. The early morning air, fresh and fragrant, rushes gayly in. Heavens! how fair the world is! Was it ever so fair as to-day? He takes up the revolver again and lifts it to his mouth. There is a short hesita- ton. His mind travels backward. His bEain reels. There!-there she is be- fore him again A slight form, clothed all in palest blue. A face divine! Her lovely arms! Her eyes-dark-iquid. See, now, they gleam for-Duran! Curse him! To him she holds out her hands. To him she gives herself. She turns A groan of agonized remembrance bursts from his lips. Then follows 8 sharp report! It rings through the house! He sways, and a corpse, disfigured in 8 horrible manner, falls heavily to the ground. All is over.
 Through the window the light breeze enters merrily, and floating downward, lifts the hair, that is still unwet, from the dead mans head, and softly, delicately, plays with it. There is only the breeze. l All other motion is gone. So intense is | the silence that reigns within the cham Der, that 8 tiny bird, emboldened by it, perches on the sill of the window, and breaks forth into morning carol, loud | and shrill. A carol! A requiem ratherl And now the silence is broken. Through | the passages beyond comes the sound of | hurrying feet. There is one that runs be- l fore the others. Nearer, nearer they come, and still the bird carols, the wind plays l the dead man lies there, careless-un- l knowing.
 A touch upon the handle of the door, | The wind still revels in lifclcss tresses, but the bird has flown away, The door | opens
 | Upon the threshold stands-his mother. | THE END.