Democratic Sentinel, Volume 8, Number 42, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 November 1884 — A DYING CONFESSION. [ARTICLE]

A DYING CONFESSION.

BY LILY M. CURRY.

There was no color in the outer world that day—no vivid color. The leaves, which lingered still upon the trees, were languid and saffron-hued from the lasting drought. The sky was clouded over and the atmosphere chilled with the whisper of approaching rain. I had been thinking hard about my trouble. Long before dawn I had wakened from horrible dreams of Mignon—dreams that she was false; long before dawn I had tossed from side to side upon my bed, and felt my eyeballs burning and my heart beating madly. I had tried then, desperately, to compose myself, to master my emotions ; but I could not, for always as I closed my eyes, she came lqpfore me, brilliant and beautiful, taunting and terrible. She came and crazed me with her superb glance, scornful lips. As 1 lay waiting for the dawn, ‘I reviewed the past. My tho ught|t raveled swiftly back to the day of our marriage, half a year before. % Since then what wretched fears, what helpless terror had come to be my portion! In making her my wife, I had hoped to make her heart mine own foreyet; ,aiad now it seemed to me that? s^e-could laugh to look upon my dead ffieis. When daylight came at last, : I arose and saw myself within the- mirror—a ghastly, haggard, desperate creature. And suddenly I felt that she -hud wrecked my body and my soul. I said to myself that this should last no longer ; that I would know tfae worst and abide by the knowledge. She would return tlxatdaj p y she hsd been two nights absent, on a visit to frienelp of hers (whom yet;-1 had not seen ), up in tlie country. At least this was the story she had 1 had not sought for proof or disproof of her words. I had hot dared to seek for it. She would not arrive until evening; and the day yawned before me like a terrible chasm, I wanted neither food nor drink, but wandered aimlessly about our apartments—our home, which might have been a little paradise, far above the ebb and flow of the stormy towm Our home, which I had cared to make so daiutv sho might love me for thejask- Alas ! , . ******* There was jsjo , color in the outer world, but ever in the space where I wnlked singl/’ro and l fro, the flames of purgatory dafflged my sight. I could not-dheose but doubt her, now that I had'Awwd that letter among her private l]M pra —it in my frenzied searchA the,. night before. A letter from a former lover. I read it many times that morning; it was brief, yet full of meaning, “I love you; I am wretched when away from you. I cannot rest Until we meet again.** That was hdw it read. It had no date, I fell no compunctions at having searched her desk. Why had she been false to me ? Had I not been faithful and kind and loving? Had I not cherished her according to my vow ?

O *! It was now a long time since I had first noticed certain peculiar little actions of hers—impatient tossings of the head, restive sighs, and curve# of the' lip, which seeiped to say, “you weary me with your assiduousness, your jealous care. I love you no longer.” And then her latest actual complaint: “Why do you torment me so? Have Ino individuality? For pity’s sake, be rational!” Rational! With that petulant voice, ringing in my ears! I continued to wander about our rooms. At times her face came before me—the face most dear to artist’s eyes —beautifully sliapen, faultless in coloring, having the classic features of Greece and the marvelous eyes of Italy— eyes made fit to dizzy all men who should behold them. And all around that face were rings of soft brown hair that reddened in the sunlight. As the day dragged wearily along, I thought of various methods by w hich to assure myself of what I must know —or die. And so at length I framed my resolution. I would not go to meet her at tho station, but, instead, remain at home, concealed, that she might believe me gone. I would place a note upon the center table, underneath the chandelier, in the little parlor. This note would promise my return the following day. Her actions upon finding this would tell the story, v Where to conceal myself! Somewhere in the little parlor, where she would enter and discover my note. J made a slow circuit of the room, it&pecting carefully each separate article of furniture, and considering what, any, shelter it might afford. 1 I started from the door leading into tnx bed-chamber, and passed leftward from the same. First came Mignon’s writing desk, a prettv little ebony affair, in which she treasured many things, as well I knew, Some old photographs WBre there, some faded flowers, some scraps of

poetry clipped from magazines,—some —letters! I had not replaced the note I had found. It still burned over mv ; heart, —burned as it were a living eoal. I looked for some time at the desk; 11 saw things with wondrous distineness. | There was dust —minute particles of dust upon the ledges. I rubbed it off with my bare finger. Next was the window. I pushed aside the Turcoman curtain and looked down upon the street. How dull and cold the whole world seemed ? How empty! Before the window stood the little chair she often satin; just a little willow rocker with a square of painted satin. My heart ached harder as I fancied her sitting there. Past these stood her piano. Past this the music-rack, with all her songs upon it. Ah, me! Next, standing diagonally across the corner of the room, the curious old clock that I had brought from my studio at her request. I put my hand upon the door, as if to open it. Then I stopped and wondered if one could, not stand with ease behind the antique time-piece. Then I passed on. Between the windows on the third side of the room was the lounge upon which I had so often lain and heard her singing in the twilight; sometimes *slie had come to sit beside me, and lay her small, soft hand upon my hair. I turned another corner and came to the door, through which she must enter. Past this were chairs, and a little stand heaped with cabinet photographs, her own among tlie rest. A chiffonier with bric-a-brac in the fourth corner, and so I came again to the door of the bed chamber. After a time I thought again of the old clock, and returned to examine its position. I drew it out a little further and slipped in behind.

The room grew dusky; the afternoon was slipping away. I walked up and down the room ; up and down, up aud down—thinking. I had not broken my fast the lifelong day. My mouth seemed parched, my tongue swollen. I felt the-shadow of approaching calamity; As it grew dark J Wqnt oys to a florist’s and bought a little bunch of flowers, carnations, with surrounding sprays of mignonette. . ■ * Coming back, I stopped and spoke to the janitor of the building,- giving ,him a message for my wife, who must soon arrive. I went up hurriedly after;-this, for there was no time to jose../J put the sweet and spicy blessoms in a'tumbler of water, and set the tftmbler ’6n the center-table, underneath the chandelier. I had a vague notion that the little offering might touch ( her heart and cause it to yearn fbr me, who loved her so. I wrote my note hastily, telling her I had been called aifray, but Would return to-morrow. I placed the note beside the flowers. I lit one jet of the gas above, and left it burning duply., It was time for hpr to come. ; ? i/gi’ew each moment more feverish and .ini’ patient.. I felt, besides, a fain tiles* from long fasting. I went Back through the bed-chamber to the dressing-room for a swallow-; of ice -water, There was some fruit in a dish upbri tho table. I thought perhaps a taste of this might cool my throat. I took an orange and hurried back to the parlor, slipping into mv hiding-place behind the clock. Why did she not come? If was past the time now, and J began to imagine all terrible things. I fanefed that she had come, had mUt the janitor at the entrance, had received from Jiim my message and taken advantage of my absence to return or send word to some lover. Tlie thought fairly choked me. My throat was painfully parched. I look out my large pbckpt-knife and began to cut the dra&gelr My hands trembled constantly. * * * At length I heard footsteps. This waiting was torture, but I endured it. The gas luu-ngd dindj |The spmy? fragrance of the flpwftng &soii the table j seemed to fill the room. I stood motionless, listening for the. seraid of her latchkey. - T still clutched the orange and pocket-knife, f- I hall my breath. * * * She entered alone, and let the door swing carelessly after her; it did not close entirely. She gazed inquiringly about, then advanced toward the table. “Flowers ?” I heard her say. “Car-nation!?—-migno'Yiette !” • I saw her take my letter in one hand, while with the other she reached up to turn the gas higher. , The chandelier was high, fend, she Very tall, so tliat she aid hot’reach’ it at the fir li ’ effort. Her lithe form and beautiful, tiplifted file Be«feied*f4p d,r&\v me toward her. to mill out and cldsp her to my heart. Heavens! what demoo held me back? She balanced thete on tiptoe. "I wonder if he will come ?” I heard her say. Then I heard something else —a soft sound, as if the wind had pushed ajar the door she had not fully closed. She did not turn; she did not seem to hear; her slender lingers were upon the gilt of the chandelier. What happend next was swift and strange—and all in silence. A man had stepped within the room, closing the door noiselessly, and darting forward, encircled her head with his hands, blinding her eyes ere she had seen him. Something heavy dropped from his arm to the floor. But not a word was spoken. She did not scream or struggle; it seemed to me there was a smile upon her lips, as if—she—knew—her—lover. The gas went suddenly out. Just for a second then I felt myself crouching like a wild beast. In that second I seemed to know an eternity of hell. She was in her lover’s arms, and I—l sprang out to where they stood. “Fiend—devil!” I cried out, and struck at him with the knife, in the darkness. I heard a low moan; something fell to the floor and some one crept to the door and groped for the latch. God! What was this? A terrible fear seized me. What had I done ? The door flashed open. I saw him fleeing from me down the lighted hall, I and Mignon quivered at my feet. ***** I lit the gas; how, I know not. I

1 closed the door. But when I looked npon her lying there, her white face froze my very heart’s blood. “Oh, God be merciful!” I tried to whisper. I had a terrible fear of touching her. ; I was growing cold from head to foot. I clung to a chair for support. Her eyes unclosed; she looked up and, seeing me, tried to smile. She moved her lips, but uttered no sound. Then I saw her slowly drag herself j toward my feet, until she could reach ! up and clasp my knee. “Oh, God!” 1 moaned, with frozen ! tongue. She smiled at me, though her eyes were dimmed with death. Her lips parted for one soft, sighing syllable. “Love ” Aud she fell back and was still. I knew that she was dead—that I had murdered her instead of the coward who had fled and left her to die. % could move now; all was over. My pretty wife, my Mignon, lay dead at my feet and I could move. I dared not bend as yet to lift her. I saw the bundle be had dropped. 1 stooped and lifted it —it was heavy. I opened it with trembling hands aha looked stupidly at the contents. Then I began to shriek aloud for aid, for all tlie world to come and know that she was murdered. They came in at my wild cries; they lifted her tenderly, as I had had no strength to da They took the sftek from my hands —the sack of burglar’s tools! And still I shrieked. Tho blood-stained knife was on the floor. They seemed to think it had been his. ***** Mignon was dead. They laid her upon her bed, and crossed her hands and set some candles on the table. I dared to look upon Her now, she lay as white and peaceful as a lily. r “Oh, Christ!” I said “If I have wholly wronged her?” A The night wore on. It was at day* break that I tcok from my pocket.the accursed letter which. had spoken her false. I stood before the window with .that letter in my hand. I remembered that it had no date. Why had I hot examined the envelope—the postmark ? I would do so now-. I could not speak, ln-eathe without great pain. When I realized what I had done, I cried loudly for death. The postmark was old; the letter was - an old one, written to Mignon ere she became my wife. , •I- had’ slain a blameless one, an I stood staring out of the window. It was raining silently in 'the silent street below, v.The gray dawn grew. . grayer. Mignon was dead!