The Vermont watchman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1883-1911, 1898-06-08
SELECTED STORY.
A Life Sentence,

fallen from the lace at his wires bosom
as she left the dinner-table three min.
utes before. She had swept away,
trailing her silks after her, unconscious
Every fresh thought flushed his face
anew, and his fingers convulsively
crumpled or rolled the scraps of paper
that he chung TO with both hands.
ooh, you scoundrell Oh, you fear.
full scoundrell"
The half-light from the drawn blinds
fell on the letter--the foolish letter, in
Kingsmark's handwriting - and fell,
too, on Kingsmark's white, hardened
face, that seemed to peer with piteous
curiosity at what 80 little time ago was
T. & fac of his friend. His friend, his
dear old friend, whom he had 30 basely
betrayed-and that not for loves sake,
but in the climax of a series OF weak
concessions to the foolish passion of
his friends wife.
The broken voice went on, sounding
YEARLY like the voice of one who has
spoken long time.
sand if any one had told me, Jack
only five minutes back-before THAT
you-oh, you scoundrell"
AT the fresh blaze of wrath, Kings
mark put up his arm instinctively.
"Keep off," he said, speaking for the
first time"
The action put new thought into
Mildenhall's madness. With a scream
like an animal in pain, the big yellow
bearded man threw himself upon
Kingsmark, and hurled him to the
ground. AS they rolled over together
Kingsmark felt hands at his throat.
His eyes swan in his head--the clutch
released for an instant, and before it
frightened again, his fingers found what
they sought in his breast pocket.
Mildenhall was kneeling on him and
laughing Historically, speech was inn
possible to Kingsmark-he tried it;
then forgetting everything but that life
and senses were leaving him, he struck
upward with all his ebbing force.
A tremor ran through the fingers at
his throat, and their clasp was loosen
ed. He struggled to his knees.
Evelyn Mildenhall seemed to be sit
ting against the tulip bank, with his
head thrown hack and his beard
pointed upward, just as it used to do
when he let off his great peal of laugh
ter at some jest of his friends.
evelyn" No answer. Then the
blood rushed into the forehead of the
man who realized now what he had
done. He stepped back into the house
and threw on his hat and inverness.
When he returned, he learned over Mil
denhall and stroked his hair with his
hand. The man was dead, but the man
who had killed him could not think of
that now. All his senses were strange
ly alive to trifes.
Through the open window he could
see the dining-room as they had left
1.-THE chairs thrust back, the cigar
box open on the table, the wine still
in the glasses. One of the two who had
sat there was dead-the one who was
alive hardly knew which. The turf
was wet. Had shower fallen? At
dinner she had complained of the heat,
and languidly predicted rain. Milden-
halls head, lying back like that, must
be crushing one of the tulips. Natural
ly an unobservant man, Kingsmark no.
ticed for the first time that tulip-cups
shut at night.
Something was shining at Milden-
halls breast. The silver figure of a
contadina hating the stiletto that slew
him. Why was there not more blood?
Kingsmark had bought that stiletto
and the silver candlestick now on the
table within, the day the two came
away from Pisa, at the end of that long
holiday in the sun. He could leave
it there safely. No man had looked at
it since but he and the dead man who
now had it in his heart. He took his
eyes from the hilt, shut them, and turn
ed away his head. When he opened
them again he stopped to pick up
something white from the turf-a torn
letter-on whose turned-up corner he
read Darling Hetty."
Thrustinging this into his waistcoat
pocket, he went down the avenue with
head bent, his boots crunching the
moist gravel on the path, now lit up
and spangled by the moonlight.
His old friend
Long ago they had sworn that the
one who died first should return to
meet and greet the other on his way.
Kingsmark wished that this could be,
for then his last memory of his friend
would be reproachful face-better
memory than the white throat thrown
back in the moonlight.
He shuddered and reached out his
hands as he walked, as one does strug-
Cling to break nightmare.
Some one was speaking. He had
walked into the little lane of light cast
by policeman's lantern.
Goodnight" he answered in his
dreams.
"Looks likes more rain, SIR"
81 fear So" said Kingsmark, and
hurried on to escape the coming show
er.
His old friendl He almost felt the
accustomed arm thrown across his
shoulder.
No thought of fight; he was tired
and tomorrow showed dimly at the
end of the long sleep awaiting him.
Mi|denhall had always walked this
road with him, and now, Mildenhall
was dead. Kingsmark wished he was
dead, too-but perhaps that was only
part of the craving for sleep which op.
pressed him. But it was his first def.
mite thought since Mildenhall, cigar in
mouth, had picked the torn letter from
the floor under the empty chair at the
table head.
Another policeman was standing al