The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1889-01-23

/ that to leave 50 young woman as Gladys all
alone is to expose her to a thousand perils"
GuilderOy Redeemed slightly, partly with an
/ ger, partly with the consciousness that his
cousin right
"She is very cold, and she is very proud" he
1 said impatienuy. "Such women are their own
| protectors"
"a convenient theory, but not a true one
/ MI Helen peccat may be fairly said of any
woman who is left alone"
"Are you inclined to act the part of Pdris?"
/ said Guilderoy, with considerable scorn and in
science, which his cousin forced himself not to
resent
IL am as much like Paris as you are like
| HeItetdWs," he said with admirable good tenn
/ per- "But you must be aware, whether you
choose to admit it or not, that you invite mis-
| fortune when you virtually abandon so young
and so lovely a woman as your WIFE,"
! 81 do not abandon her in any sense of the
| word" said Guilderoy. "She has everything
that my position, my respect, my fortune, can
! best0w on her. | shall never cease to testify
to her every possible outward regard. | detest
the very smallest exhibition to the world Of
/ disunion"
"But you see nothing injurious in the actual
existence of it? My dear Guilderoy, can you
seriously think that mere girl like Gladys
always at heart in love with you and not cold
| Though you imagine her so because you are
yourself cold TO herl, can be expected to be con-
tent with nothing more than the conventional
pretense of union? Surely, with your vast ex-
perience OF the sex, you must know them better
than that"
81 cannot help it! She is not sympathetic to
me; it is a calamity not a crime"
No woman whom you had married would
have been sympathetic to you for more than
three months" thought Aubrey but he did not
say aloud
"Have you come here to read me homily?''
continued Guilderoy with impatence aud hau-
teur.
Aubrey looked at him steadfastly
That is beyond my pretenSi0ns. l am not
| your keeper. But | frankly admit that came
here to tell you one thing. was at Ladysrood
for two hours [ found your wife in that state
OF irritation, suffering, and ohense, n which
woman may easily fall at bound from perfect
| virtue to utter ruin and selt-abandOnment. She
is young; she does not inherit her fathers phil
| osophy. She is profoundly unhappy, and
| thought that IL was only right that you should
| be made aware of it. for you seem to think tliat
woman is like one of your Lelys or Reynolds
/ es which hang immovable ia your family pOr-
/ trait gallery, though you may only glance at
| them once IN twenty years. Ny dear Evelyn,
you have been the lover OF innumerable wO-
men; recall all your experiences OF the wives
| OF other men: does not al your knowledge tell
| you that your own wife is now in position OF
the greatest peril which a sense of utter lOneli-
ness, and the besOin d'diner ungratifed, can
| create for anyone at her dangerous age?"
! Guideroy did not reply; he rose and walked
! up and down the long balcony with impatience
and uneasiness. His intelligence and his con-
| science both made it impossible for him to deny
the force of his cousins suggestions and has
/ mind which was always open TO reason even
when his passions obscured it, could not but
| acknowledge the truth Of them. A sudden Sus-
| pciOn also flashed across his thoughts.
! "You do not mean" said he abruptly. "1ou
| do not mean there is anyone
| There is no one yet, certainly, replied Au-
| brey. "But how long il may be before su-
| preme temptation comes to her-who can say?
| When it does come you cannot blame her. She
can with justice say to you, yOHS Fares UoUIH /
| remind you again: Nj ne en- peccGt.
GuIiderOy silent
81 cannot help it," he said at last, uneasily.
/ 81 do not care for her. One cannot feign that
! feeling"
But why, in heavens name, did you marry
| herr"
~ thought cared. did care little while.
How can one account for these emotions? Ny
/ dear Francis, whatever fault | may have, am
never consciously insncere. Ii seem to de.
ceive women it is because | deceive myself"
| That | entirely believe. But it is the more
| hopeless for them. Nor can sympathiLe with
you in any way. You might have made of
her anything you chose if you had taken the
| trouble.
Guderoy was silent
! He was thinking of the DAYS when in the cot
| tsge porch at Christsea he had quoted to John
Vernon the ct pue- est ct nudus Amor. And
how wholly it mad been with him as the dead
| man had predicted
He knew me better than / knew myself"
he thought. "And yet was quite honest in
| what said then and in what ! urged"
| Yes, said Aubrey, divining the course OF
his reflections; believe you are always en-
tirely sincere though very few people would
! believe It, But the effect of your changes of
/ feelings is quite as disastrous to others as il
| you were not | think your estimate OF Gladys
iswholly incorrect. | think she would even
| interest you and attract you il you
deigned TO occupy yourself with her character.
| | think she is a woman who would be capable
even OF making you pasSlOnately in love with
| her, II she had not the irreparable fault of
| belonging to you. But | have said all that
| can possibly claim the right to say-perhaps
even more than ! ought to have said. hope,
| however. that you will pardon me, and think
| over what | have suggested. | believe that
you would never forgive yourself II, through
your neglect any diShonor came upon your
| home, or even any great wrong were done to
the memory Of dead man who trusted you
Then Aubrey rose. bade him good night and
quilted him.
"Will it have done any good?" thought Au-
brey doubtfuly. "At all events, have done
what little | could do for her"
His own heart was heavy, for his self-imposed
! mission had not been accomplished without
] much pain to himself. Far more willingly had
| it been possible to do so, would he have struck
the man who could be faithless 20 her; far
| more willingly would he have espOused her
| quarrel with the old rude weapons OF violence.
| But to him they were forbidden by his sense of
| dignity and duty, of position and of patriotism;
and even If they had not been so, they would
| have been OF no earthly service to her. He
| had little hope that anything would be of ser
| vice. In endeayOring 10 influence his cousin
| he felt like man who tries TO make solid
| dyke out of the shifting sand Sometimes the
| dyke is made but the sea is always there.
| He left his cousin the tOrmented prey Of
many conflicting emotions OF which the dom
inant one was self-reproach, although almost
as strong a one was anger.
Amidst his self-reproach there was strong
sense OF anger against Aubrey, who had pre-
sumed to interfere with him. and there was also
vague jealousy. What title bad his cousin TO
espouse the cause of Gladys? What right had
! be 10 make himself the cOnfidant of her sor-
rows, or the champion of her wrongs? Her
| father might have said all this, and would have
had the right tn say IL; but he did not concede
to Aubrey any more right to do so than he
would have allowed TO any of the Condo
| lers then idliug at his water-gate.
| A great irritation rose up in him at the
| thought of another man being the consoler and
/ adviser of his wife; and he remembered how
constantly Aubrey had found time to visit at
| LadysroOd in spring or in autumn, and to sit
! with Gladys in her boudoir in the London
house, even in the pressure and hurry of a
| crowded London season. He had been glad Of
il at the time; he had even constantly thanked
his cousin for much devotion to her inter
ests; but now this intimacy wore to his eyes a
less agreeable and innocent aspect Not that