Bennington semi-weekly banner. (Bennington, Vt.) 1894-1902, 1896-01-17
lsed to ohcy. Thereforn t.nr.

lsed to obey. Therefore ta5.
And she obeyed, because even in her ex-
cess of despair and revolt, even amid
her thoughts Of suicide, the idea of failing
In her promise had never crossed her
mind. That promise was, in a certain
sense, the supreme inheritance of her love,
the painful tie that bound her to the past.
As she had lived hope alone remained.
She hoped that her husband, after he had
noticed her sweetness, dOcility and pa
thence, would rclent, and for many years
she had observed his pensive forehead day
by day, hoping to see on it a sign of for
givcness.
He never treated her rudely; he never
allowed himself to be wanting in respect
toward her. nor to speak to her harsh or
sharp word. Only once, having found her
sobbing in fit of despair, he had said to
her:
my life is no better than yours, yet I
have betrayed no one"
He had, in fact, sacrificed everything
his ambition, career, family, pleasures-to
bury himself with her in the same atone
ment.
She had hoped, but in vain. Days,
monotOny. Self control vanished; she be-
came the sport Of moods, according to the
time and humor-now weary of life, now
tormented by rcmOrse now irritated and
full of hatred. How many a time she had
said to herself:
He is old, and l am young; he will die,
and 1 shall be free. When shall be freeY"
And now he was dying. At this thought
she felt n strange spiritliko feeling which
startled her. At last she was about to be
free, her own mistress, her actions free,
her thoughts free, free to love and to DO
loved
All, the joy of escaping from her prison.
of seeking other horizons, of grasping
friendly hands!
She felt "a kind of intOxication in her
brain and rOsC feeling the need to walk,
to move; stiffness was death, and she had
enough of death, silence, GOODNESS, solitude
And as the moon, which was high above
the horizon, sent its pale rays through the
window, she went to lean against tho
mantelpiece, seized by kind of uneasi-
ness, She turned her face to the mirror
and stood there looking at herself
She was still beautiful.
Then her lips parted with a smile.
Those who had known her would know
her still But who would still remember
her? And what had become of her friends,
Of her acquaintancesY
And what bad become of him? At this
question she felt herself seized upon by
fear. Not that she would appear to him
less handsome or that she had been for
gotten. She feared that she might find him
unlike the image he had left in her heart;
that she might find him changed physical
ly ana morally and not recognize him;
that he would be n stranger to her.
While she hoaped such thoughts she saw
before herself in the mirror, feebly illu-
minated by the reflection Of the moon, two
diatcd eyes gazing on her like Goals. Be
ing al'rightcd by that gaze of the dying
man, who seemed as if he wanted to fol-
low her in her guilty reverie, she turned
with an ire, istiblc motion and went to-
ward the bed, obeying in spite of herself
Il kind Of imp6rlous and magnetic call.
Then it seemed to her rs if deep and
desperate voice came from that face which
was growing stOnclike:
II have loved you, l have worshiped
you all my life, and you have betrayed me-
y
painful desire, word that would put
BALM on my bleeding wound, but you have
let me suffer. l was innocent and shared
yoCr oXpiation. took on me half of your
punishment, hoping that at least repent
ance would come to your heart, and 10,
with numbering wish you would like to
hasten my death, and as you find it too
slow your thoughts turn against your
ma pi,fy fni 4 hot
you arel My death cannot free youl Did
you not say Never "
She understood all this as plainly as If
he had really spoken, and suddenly she
felt the horror of the evil she had done.
Yes; he had loved her, he had adored her
always, before and after her guilt, and she
had placed the GOODNESS of her passive
obedience over against that mans passion.
Then, before the terrible impotence of
that conscious agony, she felt that pity,
together with remorse, was entreating her
heart, and, being moved by an irresistible
power, she bent over the dying man,
stretched her arm to the cross that hung
over his pillow, and with q low but dis
tinCt voice she repeated her promise:
81 promise that l will never see him
againv
Lho NblilISoNth ldOb VI bllb u9lhB Aldh
beamed with serenity, his eyelids lowered
over his dim eyes, while the only two tears
which she had ever seen flowing from
those severe eyes came down his cheeks,
already cold.
Those two tears were to her like the
baptism of pardon which washed her guilt
away, and great peace descended upon
her heart.
She opened the window, saw the starry
heavens among the snowy peaks, over
which the moon shed its pale and serene
smile; then, lowering her eyes to the deep
valley, she saluted, as If she saw it for the
first time, that prison where her life would
be spent. She well knew that to keep her
promise, so that fate should not bring the
lovers of former days together, it was nee
essary that she should remain exiled from
all, unknown, forgotten forever.
The tomb, which had opened for an in
slant, had closed forever and closed in
peace. - From the Italian For Boston
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