The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1889-03-06
CHAPTER LV.


In the following week his cousin stood
on the cliff above Christslea, he having
responded to a wistful message asking for
his return there.
''Why have you sent for me? p he asked
her.
"Why do you never come to me unless
l send ?"
He looked away from her.
"Why?" she persisted. "You used to
come and see me very often"
Aubrey hesitated.
'Ihe world is suspicious, my dear, he
said at last; "and you are very young and,
though YOU always seem to forget it,
beautiful woman. do not wish them to
say evil things of YOU"
She colOred violently.
'They would never dare to say OF us"
81 fear they do, dear"
She was silent; her face was very flushed
and panied.
Glow evil the world is" she murmured.
"But let them say what they will. 1t does
not matter. We know -
''It matters for you"
He moved uneasily; his position toward
her became every day of his life more en-
barrassing to him, more strained, more
difficult. The very frankness and perfect
IFNN VI nCi al lll1 was al
added embarrassment The more.
IL seemed brutal to rob her of her only
solace, to suggest miscOnstruction to so
much innocence and courage, t0 place be-
tween himself and her the constraint
which such a warning must of necessity
create.
She sat on the edge of the cliff, uncon-
sciously plucking the little howerets of
wild thyme which grew so tnickly there.
He stood beside her and looked down on
her.
GLADYS" he said abruptly, my cousin
came to me few days ago"
Her face lost its warmth and grew very
cold.
81 heard that he had been a night at
LadysroOd." she answered.
'Yes. He did not approach your"
"Can you think that he would dare2"
"You forget, he has still the right"
'He has no moral right; no right on
earth that | acknowledge"
'You are too harsh, my dear. His rights
always exist; and, whether you will hear
it or not, must say to you that believe
his feelings for you are not wholly dead,
as you think"
She cast the gathered thyme upon the
grass and rose to her feet.
"I care nothing what they are or are
not. His life is dead TO mine"
as that how your father would have had
you speak p
''My father was a good and wise man,
but he knew nothing of wOman's heart"
perhaps he knew so much that he be-
lieved its forgiveness inexhaustible and its
patience divine-as they both should be"
She was silent. She stood and looked
out TO the gray, wind-blown sea. Her eyes
were cold and had no relenting in them.
her face had grown pale.
"Some women may be made like that" +"
she said. at last. 'I am not. He has
made his life without me. / have made
mine without him. That is all Why
talk of it?"
''How have you made your life? Child
that you are, do you mean that you can
live all your lonely years like this-always
like this-until old age comes TO your"
"Women live in converts. Why not ?'
"Women in converts live unnatural
lives-as, from mistaken motives, you are
doing. Every life, without the natural
indulgence of fitssentiments and affections.
is restricted, barren, and unblessed."
She was again silent; her eyes watching
afar off fishing-boat tossing in the deep
trough of the waves.
"Why do you say these things TO me?"
she asked at last "Surely, when one is
left alone. there are more dignity and de-
cency in passive acquiescence in ones