The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1889-02-06
CHAPTER XIX.

l
CHAPTER XLIX.
As she sat thus, till the somber day grew
to the third hour after noon, she heard
the latch of the garden lifted and a mans
footsteps crush the wetshingle of the path
way to the porch.
She rose, breathless, her heart beating
to desperation with the wildness of sud-
den hope.
She thought it possible that Guilderoy
might have followed her there, might have
repented OF his choice, might have come
to offer her his atonement and regret.
y terrible disappointment blanched her
white face whittier still as the door opened
and she saw in the shadow of the passage
way the lofty stature OF Aubrey.
He was the best friend that she had on
earth, but had he been her cruelest enc
my the sight of him could not have hurt
her more than it did then.
Aubrey came up to her and took her
| hands In his with unutterabe tenderness
and compassion.
"AIy poor child-my poor darling-how
l grieve for you," he said with broken
voice.
Then she knew that he must have read
the letter which she had written in Rome.
eyes, Hilda showed me your letter." he
! said, answering the interrogation of her
regard. at shocked me. l would have
| given my right hand that you had not
written it,. still more that you had not
been caused to write 1T. For it is fatal
error, Gladys"
II could do no less" she said, coldly.
The reaction of the intense hope which
| had for moment leaped up in her made
| her feel sick and faint; she disengaged
| hands hi nd tod hxr
the hearth, in the great chair, her back
| almost turned to him.
"YOu could have done nothing at all.
1t would have been wiser" he said with
infinite pity. my DEAR" he added re-
proachfully, "only think what it is that
you have done. What will you have made
| OF your life? Could you not have had a
| little faith in my warnings?"
She hardened her heart against her
truest friend she gathered her pride
about her coldly and stiff1y; she saw in
him only the messenger and mouthpiece
of her husbands family.
81 have done nothing that any of Lord
| Guilderoy's friends can blame" she an
swered IL have said nothing to anyone
| of all my acquaintances, and 1 shall say
| nothing 70 any OF them. l only ask to be
left alone. / am sure that | am living as
my father would have wished me to live,
and | shall spend nothing but that which
| he has left me-"
/ She spoke in ameasured and constrained
voice, as to a stranger. She could not for
! give Aubrey what she thought his prefer
! ence of his cousins cause and desertion of
! her own.
"YOu have done most unwisely," he
said, with a sigh. 81 am not defending
my cousin, God forbid He is beyond all
! defense, all excuse, and l should be
! ashamed to attempt to give him either;
! but you would have had fuller sympathy
from the world at large and greater com
fort, think, in your own thoughts if you
had taken no active partin the destruction
| of your ties to him"
Il did nothing more than was my
! right" she said coldly
THAT do not dispute. But, as l told
you, woman's rights are her rashest
| counselors. After all, dear, what has one
human being of real right over any
others life? To claim affection is idle. If
| it be no longer ours we must break our
! hearts as we will. We can not bride the
| winds. We must wait in patience till
they blow again whittier we would have
| them"
''Then no woman must ever listen to
the words OF any man."
II did not mean that. ] meant that
when we have the calamity to be loved no
more we must revile neither man nor wo-
man. We must look within. Maybe we
! shall see the cause of our Woe"
She flushed hotly with anger.
Glow have ! been to blame? 1t is not
my fault that his caprice only lived a
day."
Aubrey was silent. She understood
| that his silence was blame.
"You are unjust, like all his family" :"
she said passionately. II have made no
scandal, no exposure, no publicity.
shall make none. What more can his
friends demand? He is left in peace
with the only woman whom he loves!'
My dearest Gladys" said Aubrey wear
| ily, Il am not defending him. 1t has gone
hard with me not to revenge you with old
! fashioned violence which would have
made him pay for your tears with his
body. You may believe that not to do so
has been the greatest effort of my life"
Her eyes softened and grew dim.
'Is that really true?"
"I do not say what is not true, dear"
She stretched her hand out to him. "I
thank you very much" che said in
broken voice.
Aubrey kissed her hands with rever-
ence and an emotion which he endeav-
| ored to subdue.
II am no lover of knights, my dear"
he said sadly, "and the publicity of my
life makes indulgence in romance impos-
sible to it; but ] should be less than
man if did not feel for you the deepest,
the most indignant sympathy. That your
wound should have been dealt you by
one of my kindred makes me feel it like
| a personal dishonor-"
He paused and with a strong effort con-
| trolled, unuttered, words of greater ten
derness and fuller confession.
"But 1 will tell you honestly" he added,
after a pause, that | regret and blame
your actions. They will cost you dear,
and you have not measured the price of
| them. There is much that is fine and
even heroic in them, but can you honestly
say, dear, that you believe your father,
were he standing here now, would tell
you that you had done well or wisely ?"
She was silent. She was too truthful to
assert a belief which she could not entire
| lyfeel.
"You cannot; for he was a wise and
good man. He knew that women are
| always their own enemies when they fol-
low the dictates of pride, and of pique,
and of jealousy. Pardon me if these
words seem unfeeling; they are made
quate to express the great wrong that you
suffer from, but after ali they are the only