The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1889-02-27

fold more binding on him because merely
/ left TO his own good faith His knowledge
| of Beatrice Soria told him that the mean
est galey-slave at work on the quays of
| Naples would seem TO her infinitely man.
! lier and worthier than he if in the merest
trifle he transgressed the stipulation she
had made.
She had left him wholly free to accept
| or refuse her condition, but she had un-
| derstood, and had the right to understand,
that the condition, if accepted, was Invio-
] late. He did not reproach her for it; she
could have asked no less, looking both to
| the past and to the future. Nor could he
| have said that he regretted it, for he was
/ still happy, although one fear and one re-
morse assailed him-the fear that though
| he had again recovered his position to-
| ward her, he had never recovered his in
| fluence over her, ana the remorse that he
/ had been disloyal to the promises he had
| gwen to John Vernon.
| In all his faults and follies he had been
a man of delicate honor. as the world con-
strues the conventional honor it demands
of gentleman; he had never given the
world the title to deride or to disdain him;
he had always been careful to keep his
name out of the mud of public discussion
| and conjecture; and he was mOrbidly sen
the history of his race, a shadow, if not a
stain. had been cast upon his name-one
which might deepen and darken as the
years passed away, and most probably
would do so, whilst he would be powerless
to efface it and would have but himself to
thank for it. In the conflict of feelings
which had agitated him in his last inter
view with his wife, he had not reflected
on the innumerable consequences inev-
liable on his action. He had only
seen, on the one side, q woman whom he
passionately regretted and loved, and on
the other a woman who chilled, fretted,
offended, and alienated him. He had
chosen between them on natural i'm
pulse, with scarce a moments hesitation;
and he had cast hardly a thought to the
many difficulties and penalties which
would follow on his choice.
All his lifelong things had gone well
with him. The most serious sorrow of it
had been his repentance for his rupture
with Beatrice Soria, and she had been en-
tirely right when she had told him that
all the phases of his love had been rather
gallantry than passion. Deep and painful
emotions were novel to him and hateful.
But they now forced their way into his
thoughts, and would not be gainsaid.
He knew we'll the estimates of the men
of the world; their large intolerance OF
| many, and their tolerance OF some few,
things. He knew that amongst these few
must be his own action in driving so
young and blameless a woman as his wife
into her present position. He knew that
his contemporaries, however elastic in
Judgment, must be now his severest
critics, not for what he had done as for
how he had done it. He had put himself
outside the pale OF those easy indulgenees
which the world willingly accords so long
as no violence is offered to its codes OF
convention.
He was proud, and his pride was hurt
at the thought of how all his friends and
| acquaintance were speaking of him when
ever they remembered him at all and
they would so remember because OF the
prominence OF Aubrey's name. With lit
tie right or justice in his anger, he grew
each day more deeply angered with his
cousin. He persuaded himself that it
must have been Aubrey's influence which
had decided so young woman as Gladys
to lead so strange and wretched a life.
left her everything she could want or
wish, he thought in his classification.
She was free to live in the world at her
pleasure l had taken care that no blame
| should rest on her; and | had given her
| the half of all l possessed; she might
have been happy, quite happy, in her
own way if she had chosen; it was not |
who exiled her to a cottage by lonely
weather-beaten shore, and bade her exist
| on the pittance that came to her from her
| father.
Why could she not have continued to
enjoy all those material consultations and
| compensations with which he had so lib
orally surrounded her? If she had done
| that, his conscience would have been at
rest and the world would have seen in
their separation nothing but a mutual
and excusable agreement to lead their
| lives apart.
II must have been Aubrey, he reasoned,
who had sustained her in her headsrong
and extravagant resolution; it was Just
| such a choice as would commend itself to
| him, austere, romantic, and unworldly.
After few weeks OF irresolution and of
! many agitating and conflicting impulses,
| he said abruptly and with much embar-
| rassment to the Duchess SOria.
ut is absolutely necessary that 1 should
| go to England. Would you allow and not
misconstrue itP
She looked at him some moments before
she replied:
"My dear, am not your keeper. And
| | suppose you have honor"
He felt himself color under the pro-
| found gaze of her deep eyes. He kissed
her hand with emotion:
81 thank YOU" he said simply; he knew
that he had once given her every cause to
mistrust him forever. Her confidence in
him seemed very noble, and appealed to
him as no expressions of doubt or of fear
could have done.
81 am utterly unworthy OF her" he
! thought bitterly. How often his suspic-
ions had wronged her in days that were
! gone by; how little fitted he had been to
he the supreme passion of such woman's
! life.
Several days passed by; she asked him
neither why he fingered nor when he
would 60. That reserve in one whom he
had given every title to doubt his word in
| their past relations seemed to him very
magnanimous.
He loved her, he thought, more than he
had ever loved her, but all the strength Of
| his admiration could not drive out from
him the restless haunting of
what might be then being said and being
done in England.
1t was now well-nigh mid-winter there,
dreary, misty, cold, with drifting SHOWS; |;
here, gay, luminous, brilliant with gor-
geous sunsets and buoyant wind-tossed
/ seas