The Indiana State sentinel., 1889-01-16

they will pass, you will regret it to the
last day of your life If, of your own will
and accord, you break the bonds of yolr
affections, and make it utterly impossible
for them ever to be reunited"
She was silent. She was seated beside
him on the bench. Her head was turned
away. but he could see her emotion in
the strong throbbing OF the vein of her
throat.
"You write and you speak" continued
Aubrey, ''as il he had left YOU forever;
he has gone away for a few weeks, as he
has often done before, and you have then
thought nothing OF it, When he returns,
receive him as usual. Be sure that he
will appreciate your forbearance and your
kindness. Men often seem ungratefui,
but | do not think they are often so for
real tenderness"
Deceive him when he comes from
herl"
"From her or any other her. Why
do you take for granted that he is now
the lover of the Duchess Soria? Myself,
| do not believe that he is. She is very
proud woman, and his rupture with her
was public and sudden-the kind of Of
Tense which a proud woman never for
gives; for she had done nothing to bring
it about or to merit it"
"And am to be grateful if she now re-
fuses his hOmage"
"Iou are perverse, my dear" said Au-
brey, sadly. al do not tell you to be
grateful; tell you to be generous They
are very different things. And at the
risk of wounding you, Gladys, l must con-
fess that what you feel now is much more
irritated seli-love than it is love at ali"
She arose impetuously, and walked with
quick, uneven steps to and fro upon the
grass; her sOmber dress enhanced the
fairness of her face, the golden glow OF
her hair, the darkness Of her eyes and
lashes, as the full light poured down ON
her through the branches of the trees.
She did not look a woman to share the
fate of Ariadne. Aubrey looked at her
and his vision was troubled, and his calm
wisdom and unselfishness were disturbed
in their balance Did bis cousin deserve
that he should plead thus for him? Did
the wanderer, who slammed no Ogygia
wherein white arms beckoned to him,
merit so much fidelity.so much forbear-
ance?
And yet she loved him. What hope
was there for her except in such patience
and such pardon as might in time bring
her reward?
''ALay l tear the letter up?' he asked
her.
'If you wish," she said, reluctantly.
"And will you promise me not TO write
any other like it2"
Il cannot promise that
"And yet, dear, / ask the promise more
for your sake than his. III you leave him
you can wound his pride certainly, and
humble him before the world, but that
I'll ka oil fNr ka vxrfn cab or,1 Gn1
ISOLATION. But if YOU, of your own act,
sever the tie which unites you, you will
be forever miserable, for you will never
forgive yourself"
She was silent; her ewes watched the
shadows of the leaves swaying upon the
grass; she was unconvinced, angered,
mortified almost sullen. 1t seemed to
her that her wrongs were wide as the uni
verse, and no one pitied them.
At that moment Lady Constance ran
down the terrace steps coming from her
ride; she was calling uproariously to the
dogs who had been with her; she brought
a boisterous rush of youthful energy and
spirits; Gladys felt very old beside her.
They were no more alone, and in half
an hour he had to take leave of her, for
his presence was expected that evening at
apolitical banquet in the country town
some fifty miles away.
Promise me, for your fathers sake"
he murmured as he bade her adieu.
She sighed, and her mouth trembled,
but she did not promise. She locked at
the fragments of the torn letter lying on
the ground she knew every phrase of it
by heart; she could write it again in ten
minutes.
After he had left her she walked to and
fro restlessly and wearily in the gray, soft,
autumnal afternoon. The silence was
unbroken, except now and then by the
cav of rook; the great facade OF the
house stretched before her. stately and
noble, with the greatness on 1t OF a per-
ished time; the solemn stiffness of the
woods and moors enveloped it; there was
that in its very beauty and majesty which
hurt her more than any unloveliness
would have done. She remembered the
day when she had come thither first, with
all a child's eager curiosity, a childs ar
dent imagination. 1t was not so very
long ago in years; and yet how old she
feltl
What was he doing now!
That was the thought which tortured
her every hour of the day and night. In
absence and uncertainty, distance seems
to grow up like the wall OF great prison
between us, and the one whose face we
can not see, whose voice we can not hear,
and whose time and whose thoughts are
given we know not where, only are not,
we do know, given to us.
She was jealous of other women-of any
woman, of all women-with a passionate
physical jealousy which was intolerable
pain and as intolerable a humiliation. He
had thought her cold because the first
weeks OF his early love for her had left
with her such ine6able, such undying
remembrance. that the mere caresses OF
habit were uncomfortable to her after them.
She know all that ecstasy, ardOr, and the
might of master passion could give;
and she had been utterly unable
to resign herself to the mere
occasional formality OF joyless embrace.
With all the intensity of life in her which
youth, and strength and perfect health
could give to her, she had been utterly
unable to endure that passiOnless position
of the mere possible mother of his chill
dren, to which he had relegated her. 1t
was because such warmth and force Of
passion were in her that she had seemed
passionless to him, because she had re-
fused to take from habit what love denied
her And now all that passion in her felt
was the most cruel, the most torturing, of
all pain; the pain of a totally impotent
jealousy; jealousy which hides itself
from public eyes through pride, but makes
wretched every single thought of the
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