The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1895-01-04
[CoNTINUED.]
CHAPTER TX.

lleSG tnlnS III tne WOrlu Is TO De teue-d-
tete with ones conscience. A man may
have bad hour with an enemy, a sad
hour with a friend, peaceful hour
with himself, but when the little dwarf,
conscience, perches upon every hillock
of remembrance and makes slow signs
those symbols of the language of the
soul-to him, no slave upon the tread
mill suffers more.
The butler came in to see if anything
was required, but Armour only greeted
him silently and waved him away. His
brain was painfully alert, his memory
singularly awake 1t seemed that the in
cident of this hour had so opened up every
channel of his intelligence that all his
life ran past him in fantastic panorama,
as by that illumination which comes to
the drowning man. He seemed under
some strange spell. Once or twice he
rose, rubbed his eyes and looked round
the room-the room where, as a boy,
he had spent idle hours, where, as a
student, he had been in the hands of his
tutor, and as young man had found
recreations such as belong to ambitious
and ardent youth. Every corner was IA
miliar. Nothing was changed. The
books upon the shelves were as they
were placed 20 years ago. And yet he
did not seem q part of it. 1t did not
seem natural to him. He was in an at
mosphere of strangeness-that atmos-
phere which surrounds a man, as by a
cloud, when some crisis comes upon
him, and his life seems to stand still,
whirling upon its narrow base, while
the world appears at an interminable
distance, even as to deaf man who sees,
yet cannot hear.
There came home to him at that mo-
ment, with force indescribable, the
shamelessness of the act he committed
four years ago He had thought to come
back to miserable humiliation. For
four years he had refused to do his duty
as a man toward an innocent woman,
woman, though in part savage, now
transformed into a gentle, noble creature
of delight and goodness. How had he
deserved it? He had sown the storm; it
was but just that he should reap the
whirlwind He had scattered thistles;
could he expect to gather grapes? He
knew that the sympathy of all his ia
theirs house was not with him, but
with the woman he had wronged. He
was glad it was so.
Looking back now, it seemed so poor
and paltry a thing that he, man,
should stoop to revenge himself upon
those who had given him birth as a
kind of insult to the woman who had
lightly set him aside and should use for
that purpose helpless confding girl.
To revenge ones self for wrong to ones
self is but common passion, which has
little dignity; to avenge some one
whom one has loved, man or woman
and before all, woman-has some touch
of nobility, is redeemed by loyalty. For
his act there was not one word of de-
fense to be made, and he was not pre-
pared to make it.
The cigars and liquors were beside
him, but he did not touch them. He
seemed very far away from the ordinary
details of his life. He knew he had be-
fore him hard travel, and he was not
confident of the end. He could not tell
ticking of the clock seemed painfully
loud to him. Now and again he heard
q cab rafting through the square, and
the foolish song of some drunken lolterer
i'll the night caused him to start pain
fully. Everything Jared on him. Once
he got up, went to the window and
looked out. The moon was shining full
ON the square. He wondered if it would
be well for him to go out and find some
quiet to his nerves in walking. He did
so. Out in the square he looked up to
his wife's window. 1t was lighted.
Long time he walked up and down, his
eyes on the window. 1t held him like a
charm. Once he leaned against the iron
ratings of the garden and looked up,
not moving for a time. Presently he
saw the curtain of the window raised,
and against the dim light of the room
was outlined the figure of his wife. He
knew it. She stood for moment look
ing out into the night She could not
see him, nor could he see her features
at all plainly, but he knew that she,
like him, was alone with the catastrophe
which his wickedness had sent upon
her. Soon the curtain was drawn down
again, and then he went once more to
The house and took his old seat beside
he table He fell to hrooding and at
last, exhausted, dropped into troubled
sleep.
He woke with a start. Some one was
in the room. He heard a step behind
him. He came to his feet quickly, a
wild light in his eyes. He faced his
brother Richard.
Late in the afternoon Marion had
telegraphed to Richard that Frank was
coming. He had been away visiting
some poor and sick people, and when he
came back to Greyhope it was too late
TO catch the train. But the horses were
harnessed straightway, and he was
driven into t0yn-a three hours drive.
he had left the horses at the stables, and
having latchkey had come in quietly.
He had seen the light i'll the study and
guessed who was there. He entered and
saw his brother asleep. He watched
him fora moment and studied him. Then
he moved away to take off his hat, and
as he did so stumbled slightly. Then it
was Frank walked, and for the first time
in five years they looked each other in
the eyes. They both stood immovable
for moment, and then Richard caught
Franks hand in both OF his and said:
God bless you, my boy; God bless you'll
am glad you are backP'
''Dick, DickP' was the reply, and
Franks other hand olntched Richard S
shoulder in his strong emotion. They