Wood County reporter. [volume] (Grand Rapids [i.e. Wisconsin Rapids], Wis.) 1857-1923, 1889-07-18
"Swear by the living Godr

| sir, my innocent virtuous gentleman,
money I must have. You drew from the
bank to-day one thousand pounds. 1 must
have that. 1t is in this room. All, there
| is a safe in the cCrnerI-you keep your
precious things in it. Your eyes are wan
| dering towards it now. And these two
keys upon the table-why, as I am an
| honest woman, they must be the keys of
the safei I wonder, now, if I could IN
lock it!''
allowed her to do as she would. She
unlocked the safe. and drew therefrom
| two bags of gold, five hundred soyereigns
in each.
81 sell you your life for the gold in these
bags" she said. ''Is it agreed?"
! l nodded vacantly. My senses were
numbed If could have poured out my
life's blood to save from sorrow and shame
my darling wife and daughter, gladly
would 1 have shed it. What, then, in
comparison were these bags of gold?
sit is fortunate" she said. that you
were paid in gold. l should have refused
| bank-notes, and then you would have
| been on the straight road to the gallows.
But there is another condition; your life is
not worth moments purchase if you de-
cline. You will go from this house to-
night within the hour, and you will never
| set foot in it again. Where you go to do
not care; disappear, drown yourself, hang
| yourself; it will not matter to me. If you
refuse to obey me, if ever you seek again
the society of your wife and daughter,
they and all the world shall be made &C
quainted with your crimes. That is my
revenge; as sweet to me-ah, sweeter-
than money! You would have driven me
forth. 1 drive you forth. So long as you
are in hiding in any part of the world you
! like you are safe. Do you agree?"
az must agree"
''Then there is nothing more to be said"
! She moved towards the door, opened it,
and spoke to me from that spot. Every
word Of her kissing voice fell clear upon
my senses, although she spoke in a tone
so low that it could not travel to any other
! part of the house. 81 shall watch that
you keep your word. Ihate you and yours!
| Violate the conditions [ have imposed.
and will bring your wife and daughter
to the cutters. | will hunt and pursue
and expose them, so that they shall never
know moments peace. You know now
what you have to expect. Good-nightr'
She was gone, and 1 was alone. Well
did know that she would put her threats
into execution if did not keep faith with
her. And was it not better, apart from
this that l should disappear from the
sight of those | loved, and never see them
againP Was it possible, knowing what ]
kneW-knoWing that | was a murderer
that could ever allow them to place their
innocent lips to my guilty ones, that I
could ever gaze into their dear innocent
eyes without shuddering? True, [ felt
that had CiOnnd b11t IA
guilt was no less mine than if had done
the deed in the broad light of day, with
all my senses about me. The fear that l
used to labor under that there was sleep
| ing within me an instinct of savagery
which needed only some strong incentive
to leap into life, was verified. All these
years had it lain asleep, and now it had
| led me to the committal of this deed of
blood. What comfort could l find in the
knowledge that | murdered Mr.. Wilmot
while was in a state of unconsciousnesss
There was a Bible in my room, and [
opened its pages. An unerring instinct
conducted me to these passages:
And he that killeth any man shall sure
ly be put to DEATH"
"And if soul sin and commit any of
these things which are forbidden to be
done by the Commandments of the Lord,
though he visit it not, yet is he guilty, and
shall bear his iniquity."
Yes, must go forth into the world, into
hiding places where l should be unknown.
l must go, and leave no trace behind. My
wife and child would suffer. But time
rvulu svften their sufferings. Were [ to
remain and brave my fate, that mercy
would not be vouchsafed to them. The
sharpest agony would attend them to their
dying hour. 1t was choosing by far the
lesser evil to obey the terms imposed upon
me. To the tender hearts of my dear
ones | must have the construction which
would be placed upon my disappearance.
Yes, must go; from this home. to which
I had brought my young wife, in which
my dear child had been born, in which we
had enjoyed heaven of happiness. Unjust
go, and live henceforth dead life.
No tears welled from my eyes; but,
nevertheless, | was as one who was blind.
I left everything in the room in confusion,
the safe unlocked, papers on the table.
l took nothing with me. Feeling my way
along the dark passages, and creeping so
softly that l could not hear the sound of
my footsteps, | came to the door of my
dear Eunice's bedroom. l slid down, and
pressed my lips to the door, then rose, and
IelG my way ouWdfu dSaln. pduSeu dI
the door Of my bedroom, in which my
darling wife lay, the dearest, purest,
sweetest woman that ever shed light and
peace upon mans heart and soul. Soft
ly. softly to my knees I slid, and with
folded hands rested my head against the
panel. L did not pray-I could not; but
the mute voice within me was bidding
adieu to life, to love.
Softly rose to my feet, and went out
into the night-alone!
CHAPTER XIV.