The Indiana State sentinel., 1889-01-16
CHAPTER XNXN


this is as true OF love as OF life.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
The afternoon was growing dark, and
the low red sun was glowing behind dark.
clouds as she turned to ascend the terrace
steps.
The young Constance was sitting dis
consulate all alone with the dogs about
her.
81 am afraid you are very dull here"
said Gladys, as she saw the girls attitude.
at is as dull as deathp said the girl
pettishly.
Gladys face changed, and the look of
momentary sympathy passed out of it.
81 will beg your mother to let you 90
home, she answered. ''It is very painful
to me to feel you are here against your
will, and shall do perfectly we'll alone"
"Why do you not go abroad ?" asked the
girl. you might enjoy yourself end
lessly. oh, l know you are in mourning
just now; but il was just the same when
you were not. You never enjoyed any
thing"
Perhaps not" said Gladys, thinking of
the days when she had enjoyed every
hour of her existence, on the mOors and
by the sea; when to feel her boat bound
with the tide, and hear the lark sing above
the gaze, and watch a nest OF young chat
fnches in the orchard boughs, or the play
of young rabbits on the moOrland turf,
had been happiness enough for her-such
simple, natural, country-born happiness
as the girl had never known.
'He is ENJOYING himself; why should
not you? Nobody wears deep mourning
long now, and nobody makes any differ
ence for it while they do" said Lady
Constance. holding up one OF the news
papers which lay in her lap, and pointing
with her finger to paragraph in one or
them.
Gladys looked involuntary where she
pointed. 1t was description of an au-
tumnal party then assembled at one of the
great chateaux OF France; and amongst
the names Of the guests were printed those
of Guilderoy and the Duchess Soria.
"Always those Journalist" said Gladys,
as she motiOned it aside in disgust.
"They are very indiscreet, sometimes" +"
said the girl cruelty, with q malicious
smile.
Gladys said nothing, but passed by her
tOrmentOr and went indoors.
"What fool she is to care" thought
Lady Constance.
In the morning, very early, mounted
messenger brought letter from Aubrey,
which he had written over night before
leaving the town.
at is impossible for me to see you vet
again, my dear Gladys" he wrote, though
| will endeavor to do so next month.
Meanwhile | once more entreat you TO do
nothing rashly. The only possible conso-
lation for us in sorrow is when we are able
TO feel that we have done nothing to de-
serve or hasten it. Perfect patience with
those we love gives us this solace if it give
no other. Very likely your wrongs are
less than you think; but even if they are
more so, still do nothing rashly.
You have high sense of honor, and
having this you must feel that as you ac-
cepted the charge OF your husbands good
name YOU must, in honor, do nothing to
imperil it. And forgive me, dear, if add
that in all your expressions, whether
written or spoken, l found much more OF
the evidence of a sense OF injury than l
found of the unselfishness which is the
highest note of love.
Il am a man, as you know, in whose
harrassed and busted life neither poetry
nor love have any place, but | remember
reading, | forget where or how. some
lines which have haunted my memory
ever since. They are these:
Though you forget,
No word OF mine shall mar your pleasure.
Though you forget
You dlrd my barren life with treasure;
You may withdraw the gilt you gave,
You still queen, still am slave,
Though you forget.
"Now, it is the heart which saws as
much as this, even when fOrsaken, which
to my thinking loves; and no heart which
says less than this does love. 1t may
throb with rage, fret with jealousy, smart
xr-ifh t,air, II doac not ior-a Whit
after all, dear, is any human life, that it
should exact as its rights remembrance
and devotion from another?
"Whether we have that right or not, we
are only either wise or tender when we
waive it wholly and are content to give
ourselves without seeking or asking for
any recOmpense whatever. If you give
such as this to Evelyn now, some day or
other be sure that you will have your re-
ward.
whether he deservesit or not is wholly
! beside the question. 1t is our own life,
our own character, which should deter
mine the measure and standard of what
we give-not those of the person to whom
we give it.
pardon me this homily, dear, which I
write when l am very fatigued, at long
after midnight / endeavor to say to you
what / believe your father would say TO
you if he were now living. Who knows
that he may not stand behind me as
write this, though my gross senses cannot
perceive his presence? We know little of
life, nothing whatever of death. All
things are possible. The only thing which
| always seems to me utterly impossible is
that great man can ever die. am affec-
tionately yours, FRANCIS"
Continued nert arcek