The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1889-03-06

fate than in any noisy revolt against t?"
eyes; but If he returned to you?
Would your pride stand In the way of
reconciliation ?"
"Has he told you to ask me that?"
"No; he said nothing which could even
suggest it. But it was clear to me that he
regretted his own actions, and regret is
always near repentance.
'He will never feel repentance, not even
any very real regret. He may feel incon-
venlence, irritation, anxiety tor the worlds
opinion-caprice, fatigue, satiety-noth-
ing more"
II begin to think you have never loved
him, Gladys"
perhaps not"
He looked at her, troubled and per-
picked by her tone, seeing no way into
her real meaning, wondering at her
strength in keeping the secret of her own
feelings so closely in such long solitude.
There is no love-" he said. almost
harshly, "where there is any considera-
tion of self There may be desire, pride,
pique, egotism; but there is no love. l
have told you so many times. l should
wish your own heart to tell it you without
me-"
Are all feeling, all sacrifice, all pain,
then, to be on one side alOne?"
a great love never asks that question,
my dear, it gives all it has to give, un-
weighed"
Something in his voice as he spoke,
something in his expression as he looked
down on her, went TO his heart with q
sudden sense of what his feeling was for
her. She had never thought of it before I;
she had taken all his faithful and tender
friendship as created rather by his po-
sition toward Guilderoy than by any per-
sonal devotion to herself. She had been
engrossed in that absorbing selfishness
which great suffering creates and she
had passed over unnoticed a thou
sand things which might have told her
what he felt had not her whole thoughts
and her whole emotions been given to the
tragedy of her own fate. Now some vague
perception of the truth came to her al
though he had so Loyalty concealed it.
Some sudden sense of all which he had
done for her, all which he had wasted on
her, all which he restrained and denied for
her sake, came upon her with mute, IN
efiable reproach. How selfish she had
been, and how ungeneroUs, before this
immense and unuttered devotion She
dropped her head upon her hands and
burst into passion of tears.
Forgive me, forgive mep she mur-
INJURED, weeping, not knowing what she
said.
al have nothing to forgive, dear" he
said. surprised and touched to the quick.
II want you to forgive, because L know
that unless you do so no peace will ever
come to YOU"
He waited moment, but she made no
reply.
81 must 60 now," he said, cor shall
not be able to be in London tonight.
VIII you think of what / have said2 The
day will come when you will have occa-
sion to think of it. And, my dear, do not
deem me unkind If l cease my visits to
you. They are ill-judged by the world,
and thev displease my cousin. OF course,
if you ever need me greatly l will come /;
but not habitually, Familiarity, as L have
come of late"
Her face changed and her brows con-
tracted almost sullenly.
"You will sacrifice Inc to him?"
''No. But l will not sacrifice you to the
evil construction OF either your husband
or the world"
81 thought you had more courage"
Aubrey smiled sadly.
''It is not courage which is wanting to
me, my child. Perhaps some day you will
understand my motives, if you do not
now. Meantime, do not misjudge me nor
doubt my sincere regard for all your tru-
est interests"
The words seemed very cold to her and
conventional.
She was very young still, and she longed
for tenderness, for indulgence, for an al
fection which should let her lean her ach-
ing life upon it and there find rest.
When he went from her in the duskv,
windy, cloudy day the sense OF an inn
mense loss came over her; the solitude of
her life closed in on her; and she saw
night descend with terror of its sleepless
hours.