Vilas County news. [volume] (Eagle River, Vilas County, Wis.) 1896-1927, 1897-01-25

work. | paused, and ghost of the day S
temptation rose before me. Philippa had
seen me, and my mothers eyes followed
hers. / braced myself up, and vent
toward them with as jaunty manner as
| could assume My mother began a
mock TRADE on my shameful desertion
of Philippa and herself. Her words car
ried no meaning to my ears. My eyes
met those Of my wife.
with her / made no attempt ut con-
ceaIment. Where was the good! The
worst, the very worst, had come. My
eyes must have told her the truth.
/ saw her sweet face catch fire With
alarm. ] saw her lips culver. | saw the
look of anguish flash into her eyes yet
| knew that | was helpless, utterly help
less.
She rose | made some conventional
excuse and went to my room. In a
moment Philippa was at my side.
Basil, husband, love-" she whispered,
''it has conner
/ laid my head on the table and sobbed
aloud. Philippa's arms at once wreathed
around my neck.
Dearest. / knew it must come. |
have known it ever so long. Basil, do
not weep. Once more, / tell you | am
not worth such love as yous."
| covered Der dear face with kisses.
/ strained her TO my heart. | lavished
words Of love upon her. She smiled
family, then sighed hopelessly-a sigh
which almost broke my heart.
f"I'ell me all. my love-" she said, calm
~. Let me know the very worst. :
| could not speak: for the life of me
the words would not come. With trem-
bling hands | drew out the newspaper,
and pointed to the fatal lines She read
them with a calm which almost alarmed
me.
81 knew it must be- was all she said.
| threw myself on my knees before
her. ! embraced her. | was half dis
traught Save for my wild CALCULATIONS
of undying love, there was silence for
many minutes between us.
Presently. with great force, she raised
my head, and looked at me with her
sweet and sorrOWful eyes.
Basil, my dearest. you have been
wrong. The right is right, the wrong is
wrong. See what you have done! Had
you not striven to save me, only | should
have had TO answer for this. Now it is
you and me, and perhaps a third-an
innocent stainless life, that will be
wrecked"
Spare me. Spare me-" | said. 'As
you love me-. spare me.''
She kissed me. Dearest, forgive me.
| should not blame you" Then, with
q sudden change in her voice, when do
we start for England. Basil:'
Although | expected this question, |
trembled and Shuddered as [ heard it.
Too well | knew what England meant.
1t meant Philippa's standing in open
court, in a prisoners dock, the center of
a gaping crowd self-accused of the muir
der of her husband. And as | pictured
this. once more, and for the last time,
the temptation shook me.
[ spoke. but l averted my eyes from
i IL a
was husky and strange; it sounded like
the voice OF another man. A sort Of
undercurrent of thought ran through me,
that if Philippe would but share it. /
could bear any burden, any dishonor.
Listen | said in quick ac-
cents. I'VE are far away; safe.
| We love each other. We can
be happy. Let the man take his chance.
| What does anything matter, SO long as
we love and are together?'
| | felt that her eyes were seeking mine.
felt a change in the clasp of her hand.
l knew that she was nobler and better
-. Basil !, she said softly. and speaking
husband, not the man | love, who said
that. | forgive you for the sake of your
great love, for the sake of all you have
done, or tried to do, for me. Tell me
now, when do we start for England?
| Her WOEUS Drought Ddck my SeuSeS.
| Never in the widest height of my passion
had / loved Philippa as / loved her at
| that moment. | besought her pardon.
| She gave it, and once more repeated her
| question.
| With the calm Of settled despair /
consulted the railway guide, and found
| that il we left Seville tomorrow morn
ing by the first train, we might, by
travelling day and night, early on the
morning of the twentieth, reach the town
| in which the trial was to be held
made the result of my researches known
to my wife; and upon assuring her that hat
we should have time to spare, she left
| all the arrangements Of the journey to
| me.
| After this, another painful question
| arose. Was my mother to be told
| Philippa, who may, perhaps, in her secret
heart have craved for Woman's support
and sympathy in her approaching trial,
at first insisted that my mother should
be taken into our conhdence-a confidence
which, alas! i'll q few days time would
be gossip to the world. | besought her
| to waive the point, to spare my mother
| feelings until the very last moment. We
| could not take her with us on our hur-
ried journey. We were young; she was
| old. The fatigue, combined with the
| grief. would be more than her frame
could endure. [ could not bear to think
| of her waiting lonely in Seville for the
| DdQ news WHICH SIlo kucW muSI COliC
in a day or two from England. Let us
say nothing respecting the wretched er-
| rand on which we are bound. Let us
| depart in secret, and leave some plausible
| explanation behind us.
70 my relief, Philippe at last consented
to this. Then, after long, fearful en-
brace, we steeled ourselves to join my
mother at the evening meal, and to bear
ourselves so that she should sus-
pect nothing of the tempest within
our hearts. We did not very long
subject ourselves to this strain upon our
nerves 1t seemed to me now that
every moment spent otherwise than alone
with my wife was a precious treasure
wasted, loss which | should forever
| regret SO very early we pleaded ia
tigue, and retired to our rest. Such
| rest.
Philiopa babe my mother goodnight
with an embrace SO long and passionate
| that / feared it would awaken alarm,
especially when it was succeeded by my
own yelled, but scarcely less emotional,
adieu For who could say that we should
ever meet again? | do not believe it
struck Philippa that in accompanying
/