Middlebury register. (Middlebury, Vt.) 1886-1937, 1893-08-11
CONSCIENCE.

no nOt suppose, Stlu lNisOll, SpedhlnR
very slowly and distinctly and looking
straight into the other mans eyes, that
you know exactly what you were doing, but
| say again that is no excuse for you. We
have been friends long enough to warrant
your taking sides with me in almost any
thing and even to-even to lying for me if
it were necessary"
The other man shifted his position and
wet his lips with his tongue.
you did not remember, did you" wi
son went on, gripping and ungripping the
back of the chair behind which he was
standing, that it was | who put you on
your feet, not only this last time, but once
or twice before? am going to believe you
forgot ths-forgot that to me you owe
even what little you have, for don't want
to think of you as an ungrat full man. No,
you are not ungrateful; you are simply a
fool. You say that when he asked you
you were so taken by surprise that you
could only acknowledge had been wllful
and wild and mixed up in one or two af-
fairs not greatly to my credit as gentle
man. And yet you ought to have known
and remembered that your words were my
death warrant with her father You did
know it, but why didn't you remember it2
What have you to say for YOURSELF"
The other man swallowed once or twice,
but he did not speak. Ivison, growing
paler every moment, turned the chair aside
and moved toward the door.
II am going" he said, because do not
care to trust myself with you longer. If
did, | might forget and if | forgot |
t,.,- L
senses again. you will see and understand
just what you have done for me. You have
ruined my life and hers, for she loves me
through it all-and | am the man who
made you. am going south tonight, and
it will probably be for IA long time My
only wish is that, in the years to come
until You are dead-you will think at least
once a day that it was you who wrecked
the happiness of two people-who broke
her heart and brought the old hell back
into mine, and it is you who will pay for
it in the end"
At last the other man found his tongue
My God, Ivisonr' he cried hoarsely.
don't leave me now-let me think, let me
think! I-I-how could | know what he
wanted? He only asked me if you had been
wild years ago. and | said'-passing his
hand quickly over his eyes-"what did |
say? 1t could not have been much, for he
was here but minute. But | can fix it,
Ivison-I can fix it some way. How could
know il was her father"
You couldn't know" answered Ivison
in the same clear even tones, though the
other man knew that back of this forced
calmness the devil himself ragged in the
others soul, because, as ! told you, you
We're fool. Until then you had been pass
ably sane. and it would seem that you
ought to have known enough to keep your
mouth shut, but you didn't. On the con
trary, you told him more than he asked for
You said that ! was "A friend of yours, but
you thought-no you knew had sowr
my wild oats-and then you told him what
they were and what sort of crop they
Were yielding
You told of the other woman, and-and
all the rest. Could any man alive have
| given his daughter to me hearing that,
| And yet all the time you were talking you
! knew | had changed; that | had buried
the past in a straight, upright present ant
! had kept it in its grave for years But you
weren't content to let it stay there. Yor
dragged it out and showed it to him-en
joyed doing it doubtless. And made YOU
The other man locked straight befor,
/
took up his hat, drew his gloves from hi
pocket and began slowly putting them on
II did not come here to preach to you,
he said presently, "for | am not good a
that sort of thing. | came for your owl
good as well as to tell you just what
thought of you. have done that, and nov
say to you never want to set eyes on yol
again have kept my hands off your mis-
cradle body tonight because | am not
rough, but warn you now that if ever
see you again it may be different, for it i
in my heart to kill you-to kill you, do you
hear?"
"Why don't you do it them" said tn
other man, turning his sunken eyes upol
his scour.er, his voice still hoarse witt
emotion. IL wouldn't stop you. | know
all you say and more is true-that yol
made me- aud that have ruined you. Nol
couldn't possibly think any less of me thai
| do of myself. If putting an end to m
unhappy life viii make reparation for wha
have done, say doitl Don't stand ther
and review the whole cursed thing though
for what is past can't be helped. In God
name, lvisOn," he cried fercely, THROWN
his arms above his head in his wild, d-a
matte way, what can do now"
Nothing. You couldn't convince hir
that you had wronged me, and / canno
deny what you said. All can say to hin
is the past is dead and buried, and h
shrugs his shoulders and says it is yer
lifelike corpse. You did not lie No, 20
did what is sometimes much worse and
good deal harder to do-you told the truth
When-but there is no use in saying any
thing else. Good night" and Ivison close
the door softly behind him.
The other man stood still until he hear
him pass out into the street Then, with
groan, he sank into his chair and buried hi
, head on his arm. From his earliest boy
hood he had been sensitive, painstakin
, creature, careful and conscientious TO sue
. a degree that he became a byword in hi
; own family, of high strung and intensel
nervous organization, and with a temperi
ment as changeable as the weather an
often affected by it. He was not hanC
some man; he was tall and thin an
STOPPING; his eyes, deep and hollow, wei
always fevtrishly bright; his chin wa
. pointed and his lips thin, giving one I'll
Z idea of n clrlpl sfraak i'm the man which \