Waterbury evening Democrat., 1888-01-17
THE WArERBURY EVENING DEOCRAT TUESDAY, JAN r. l88s

Our marriage can never take place. It wouli people,"
 "A great misery! It is but little while that you pretended to think it great happi- ness. have been told that men are nckle. know it now"
 But oh! best beloved of women, am not changed. shall never change, but Q new sorrow has oveishadowed us, and 1t IS one which can never lift. I pray you do not ask me to say more; my heart is broken"
 Il believe you. So, then, it is a secret be- tween us which you will not tell me, or can not."
 He lowered his head.
 And this secret,n she continued, lis not yours, as mine was not mine. There must be, then, something of that sort that forces you to keep up before me like silence, and that stains the honor of some one of your family. l see you cannot answer, and that from pale you now blush red. Have divinedg'
 He joined his hands i'll agony and held them out to her in mute application.
 ''Very well, Raymond. Now it is my time to say, whatever the shame, whatever the dishonor, love you, and shall still be proud to hear your name. You did not cast me of when you learned the full measure of my woes. Tell me, then, Raymond, tell me your secret. You are too noble and too proud, so that this dishonor cannot be your own, but must hear, Raymond, just as you heard me, so that may consent or refuse. Do you think would refusea"
 "Do not ask. Do not wish to know, and if you did I should be the most unhappy of men. It is, alas! useless"
 Raymond, are you tired of me, and is this a subtcrfuges Please say so, if it is, though am willing, God knows, to suffer anything f~,. <4< feel that I am of the kind that urges their love upon another
 ''This is moro than cruel! My life, my love and my souls idolatry are given to you, and you only do or shall ever love.n
 s'.Then since you love me, do not plunge my whole life ill one perpetual mourning. Leave me little hope if you do not wish me to die"
 "Adieu, Suzanne, my precious love!"
 Raymond, pray you reconsider. Keep your secret locked in your heart; I will never ask it, never, swear. will never think of it. Our happiness will be possible again. Oh, Raymond, do not refuse. If you knew how many tears have wept in my lonely life since my childhood, and how much want to know what peace and happi- ness are."
 The poor child had Raymond's hand and she lifted it to her lips and kissed the fingers one by one. Her sweet words came to his ears like distant music, and his whole being thrilled at that tender caress; but the sweet CT it was the more was it his duty to leave her and fly. And his happiness and hers could be secured so very easily. He had but to keep h.s awful secret and open his arms to become the husband of the woman he loved He had but to say one word, and he made no sound or gesture, for at that mo ment he seemed to sec in one flash of light that whole terrible drama. And his soul re- volted at the thought of his wife, if he con sented, being the daughter of his mothers victim. He questioned his conscience no more, for he knew he could not permit such an abomination.
 Raymond drew back and with groan of agony, the like of which she never heard. ha started and ran away from her and tempta- tion as though pursued by demons; and she, poor girl, held out her hands after his re- treating figure, but he was gone And when she could sec him no more she fell swooning upon the moss as if he had taken her life with him. She lay thus like one dead for an hour, and when she regained her serses she crept feebly home and to her bed, where morning found her sick and suffering.
 When Laroque returned at night he found her very ill, with every symptom of brain fever. The physician ordered quiet, and said that he feared she had suffered some mental shock
 That night ill her delirium the unfortunate father heard in disjointed sentences enough to inform him that Raymond had abandoned her, and he determined to have an explana- tion with him, and to that end drove over to Meridon farm, and asked to see Raymond alone.
 "You wish to speak to me, sir?' said Ray mond.
 ssYes, M De Noirville My daughter is dangerously ill, and in her delirium she let es- cape her enough to convince me that though place, you suddenly withdraw your promise. Was that done on account of my having been adjudged guilty of 1nurder!"
 ''No, and know that in spite of that you were the most honest and loyal man in the world, and know that you have been very unhappy"
 My daughter loves you and will die if you deserther. In remembrance of the friendship which united your father and me, will you tell me why you do this? Why your sudden change"
 s'Alas! sir, when asked for the honor of her dear hand I did not know-that- that'-S
 1T was an escaped convictg'
 
 tho circumstances"
 -"Then what do you meang'
 "That-that you had been my mothers lover"
 Roger closed his eyes and shuddered, and bowed his head in shame.
 ''You invoke the friendship which existed between my father and you. That friendship was the death of my father. Can you deny it?"
 Il cannot; we were both culpable once, but I, at least. have Deen atrociously punished. Ono word from your mother would have saved me, but she would not say it, and I could not. have paid. God knows, in tears and groans for my wrong. But all that is past and gone. The thing to consider now is the happiness of my child, and yours, if you love her, as have been led to suppose Let your union repair the past.''
 'sNo,' said Raymond. ''It is impossible"
 s'You do not love her then2'
 God only lsnows how we'll do." ''There must be. then, another reason be- sides the one you have cited. It is that which governs your conduct. Will you tell 1 met"
 "Neverl M. Laroque. you see how suffer. Cy.o ~>>sA