Phillipsburg herald. [volume] (Phillipsburg, Kan.) 1882-1905, 1889-07-26

L19Lu All q luELQ 4EGHE u5E eyes, DIG
should have been mistress here-might be
even yet. The resources OF wealth and
taste had been exhausted to make the place
bright and beautiful.
Dead or living, Duicie shall never reign
here again, she said to herself.
The dressing-case and all the pretty
little inlaid tables were carefully searched
without any note being found. TOinette
was turning away, vindictive JOY IN her
eyes, when she noticed a pastebOard card
lying on the carpet. 1t bore simply the
address of a New York milliner-Madam
Keeler.
4 shall keep this card, TOinette said,
yielding to a sudden impulse she could
not have explained even to herself. at is
o. no value to anybody else.
Mrs. Rusk glanced curiOusly at the ad-
dress, but made no objection. Toinette
had stepped to the window and was look
ing out, mentally asking herself if Dulcie
had indeed been so mad as to take her
life, when q heavy tread sounded on the
stairs and Philip RaynOr entered.
He had just come from the river, where
the men we're still at work. He looked
pale and haggard; his clothes were sOiled
and wet. Pausing on the threshold he
stared beWilderedly at TOinette a moment,
as If uncertain whether she were flesh and
blood or an Elusive vision.
1T is Miss Lynton," the hOusekeeper
hastened to say, noticing his perplexity.
She has business with you, I believe,
sir"
He came nearer but made no effort to
take TOinette's extended hand. His eyes
were luster ess, no warmth or color came
into his cold, white face.
The girls heart sank as she met that
dull, passiOnless gaze. Leave US, she
said, in a peremptOry whisper close to
Mrs. Rusk's ear.
When the door closed she Ventured
lightly to touch the miserable mans arm.
This is very sad-very shocking, she
said rs there no clue to Dulcie's fate?"
She Is dead; / am her murderer" came
the answer, spoken with impassiOned
vehemence.
Toinette shuddered; not so much at the
words as at the fierce repulsiOn with which
he drew back from her touch.
~No, no; don't say that, Philip. he
cried, earnestly. at isn't your fault that
the girl has made away with herself.
Did not drive her to suicide by my
harshness and cruelty? She was a loving
lmpulsive child, and trampled upon her
tender heart. I was mad, blinded with
misery, and could see no good in her. I
doubted her love, her truth, her fidelity.
I thought her wicked and designing be-
cause she yielded to the most terrible
temptation a helpless young girl ever
knew. Heaven pity and forgive mel
am as much her murderer as if I had
driven a dagger into her heart!"
He dropped his head upon his hands,
grOaning heavily. TOinette fixed a wild,
startled look on him, as if struck by a
sudden, sickening fear.
Think how wantOnly she deceived you,
Philip. What could she expect? Not
| tenderness or fOrbearance, certainly,
when your eyes were opened to the
truth.
She was my wife. I might have been
kinder to her. "
In spite of the cruel deception by
which she won yOu?"
Yes. I can realize how terribly she
suffered - the fearful struggle through
which she passed. It was no easy thing
FOR her to sin You do not know how
meek and gentle she was; you never saw
the look of pathetic appeal in her eyes
that might have sOftened the most OBJ
durate heart!"
Toinette grew cold all over as she lis
tened
Philip, what are you sayingP" she
cried, in a smOthered voice. Have you
learned to love that girl?"
I cannot tell, he grOaped. "She was
/ so sweet, so patient. so full of tender
| thOughtfuIness. 1 cannot read my own
/ heart. 1t was full of bitterness at first.
/ This sudden shock has awakened me as
| from a selfish dream I only know that !
/ am miserable; that I would give my own
| life to call Dulcie back; that shall never
| know moments happiness if she has de-
/ strOyed herself.
A terrible expression stole into TOi-
nette's eyes. She had never really be-
! lieved, even when giving way to the widest
fears, that Dulcie would supplant her in
/ the affections of the man she loved.
Philip, Philip, she painted, do you
/ not realize that Dulcie's death sets you
| free?"
LET me speak. I must. Icannot keen
silent now. Think of our plighted VOWS,
our frustrated hopes! Think of my an
| guish when 1 heard you were welded to
| another; what I have suffered sincei 1t has
| seemed at times as if life had come to a
! sudden end, for life without hope or Joy
is only lingering death. Philip, Philip,
! tell me the truth. Have you ceased to
/ love me?"
! She would have sunk sobbing into his
/ arms had he not repulsed her.
/ Have 1 ceased to love yOu?" he hoarsely
! repeated. Heaven help US bOth-I can
not tell AS 1 said before, my own heart
! is a mystery to me. 1t is full of unutter-
! able pain and sorrow. I only know that
! you can be nothing to me now. My dead
wife's reprOachful face would ever come
| between US. When-When all is over ]
! shall go away and never see you again.
His voice faltered at the last and with
! out another word or farewell look ne ab-
ruptly left her.
As the door closed, Toinette sprang up
from the croUching attitude she had as
sumed, and began walking restlessly up
and down the room. Great white beads
were gathered upon her forehead. Once
/ she struck her hand across it with a fierce,
| kissing cry.
My Cod"
That was all she said. After a full
! hour had passed she left the house with a
/ heavy, dragging step, and wended her way
/ to BOnnyview Hall. There, in the soil
tude Of her own room. a sudden thought
/ came to her that sent the chilled blood
! flowing through her veins once more.
1T is a strange, desperate thing to do,
! she said, with "a hard, mirthless laugh.