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INTO NAmiOUS LIQHT
By LLEWELYN STEPHENS.
SYNOPSIS.
Julian Deveaux, a New York actor of bad char
acter, meets a young Southern girl with whom he
falls deeply in love. She consents to marry him at
the sudden death of her father, who wishes the un
ion. During the wedding trip abroad the young
wife, Christiania, gets her first glimpse of her hus
band’s real character. The couple are followed by
a woman, Ariane Bouvier, connected with De
veaux’s past who returns to America with them and
on the steamer warns the husband that his wife
does not love him. It is Deveaux’s ambiton to
have his wife reign in New York society and he
gives her a magnificent home in Fifth Avenue.
John Marsden, a young preacher to whom Deveaux
had become curiously attracted before his marriage,
and who had gone South to marry the couple, is
urged by Deveaux to visit his wife who remembers
Marsden pleasantly. The preacher does so in the
hope of helping the young woman through the temp
tations of New York society. He dines at the De
veaux home one Sunday when Deveaux himself
openly boasts of the manner in which he has dese
crated the Sabbath. The other guest is Horace
Bradmore, a fast New York man, who openly ad
mires Christiania, and tells her of her husband’s
past career as an actor. The girl restrains her sur
prise, and shock, but is humiliated at the table talk
before John Marsden. Deveaux has spent most of
that Sabbath with Ariane Bouvier and when he
returns at 3 a. m., he quarrels violently with his
wife who, however, does not reproach him, and is
naturally surprised to learn next morning that he
has left the house when she requested him to leave
her room.
(Continued from last week.)
CHAPTER XIX.
When Mr. Deveaux awoke that morning about
noon, and looked about him, he had not the slightest
idea where he was. Fie tried to recall the incident
of the night before, and what unusual thing had
occurred. It was some minutes before he could re
member anything distinctly, then when it began to
dawn upon him what he had done, and how 7 he
had wronged his idolized wife, he sprang up, hur
riedly dressed himself, and rushed from Ariane
Bouvier’s house, jumping into the first passing
coupe. He had gone but a few blocks on his way
home when his wife with Horace Bradmore and his
sister drove past him.
By the time he reached his home, he realized all
that he had said and done. One of his demonish
moods had come upon him, and he had given way
to it the first time in a year and a half. He had
no idea how deeply his wife had taken his conduct
to heart. He could not conceive of her motive in
being seen in public with Horace Bradmore after
he had plainly revealed to her the character of
the man. 1 ‘Curse Bradmore,” he exclaimed. “He
is a wise serpent, to mask his intentions under the
cloak of his sister’s presence. If he gives me the
slightest chance I shall challenge him for a duel.
He always has been in my way, and what better
excuse could I have for shooting him down like a
dog, than his attempt to gain my wife’s affections?”
It was the first time he had ever been in his home
without his wife’s presence. How desolate the
great house seemed.
He went into Christiana’s room and stood upon
the same spot where he had left her the night be
fore. He affecionately touched little articles about
the room she daily handled, and picked up a little
satin slipper and kissed it.
He wandered into the art gallery and stood for
several minutes before the portrait which he had
painted that summer in Monteagle. There she
stood, “a sweet flower just from the hand of God.”
He went to the library and sat down by a cur-,
tained window overlooking Fifth Avenue. Ho was
scarcely seated when he saw a stylish equipage go
The Golden Age for May 10, 1906.
dashing up the avenue, and in it sat his wife by
Horace Bradmore. She was talking and laughing
gaily, and did not so much as glance toward her
home, while his eyes were turned upon her in ad
miration and wrapt attention.
This was added fuel to Mr. Deveaux’s jealous
fury. He ordered his own carriage and hurriedly
drove to the home of Isabelle Conrad, to whom he
bad paid marked attention for years before his mar
riage.
“Isabelle, I dare say you are surprised to see me,
but wishing to resume our comradeship of “auld
lang syne,” and to have an uninterrupted talk
with you, I have come to take you for a little
drive.”
They drove into Central Park at the Ffty-ninth
street entrance. Miss Conrad looked up at him in
surprise. “You are not going by your home to
have your wife join us?”
He tried to appear indifferent, as he replied:
“Oh, no, I am a deserted husband this afternoon.
My wife has gone out with a driving party. I was
detained down town at the time, so could not join
them. I have just been wishing for an opportunity
anyway, to resume our friendship, so am really and
truly delighted that it has so soon presented it
self.'”
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“ She njjent donjon to see Horace Bradmore. ”
She looked him squarely in the face, “Julian,
you and I have known each other too long and too
well to try to play any little games on each other
at this late day. I saw your wife out driving with
Horace Bradmore. I know what that means of
course. You and he have been rivals for years.
Why did you invite him to your home where your
wife must meet him? Os course I know that you
do not care what the world says of you, but you
must have pride enough to value your wife’s good
name.”
“Why do you not value your reputation too well
to be out driving with me this afternoon,” he re
torted.
“You know full well, Julian, I thought your wife
was to join us,” she answered angrily. “If you
do not wish to confide in me as a friend, then I
can be your enemy and Bradmore’s friend in this
affair. I hate him, as you know. But I could
hate you still more, because I eared for you once
and I never cared for him. Now which are we to
be. friends or foes?”
“Friends, Isabelle, by all means. I need your
help. I must down Bradmore. He has already
caused the first real quarrel between my wife and
myself, She is angry with me, and I fear that spir-
it tempted her to go driving with him this after
noon. There is nothing I can do except play inde
pendence. You know nothing touches a woman so
deeply as indifference on the part of one whom she
loves.”
“I see your game. You are using me to make
your wife jealous. Thuugh you may have forgot
ten the past, to my bitter regret, I have not. Be
ware, lest you be attempting a dangerous game.”
“I am not trying to decieve you, Isabelle. I love
my wife, and I have no desire to deny it. She is
a pure, innocent and divinely beautiful child. Still,
we are not suited to each other. To be candid with
you, you and I are much more congenial. Far bet
ter had I made you my wife. What mistakes we
discover when too late.”
LI.I r ~ : '1 "l -•
CHAPTER XX
When Mr. Deveaux and Christiania arrived home,
neither one gave the other any opportunity for a
private lintervi|ew. She seemed in haste to be
dressed for the theatre. Her eyes glowed with a
vindictive sparkle, so unlike her usual self. Upon
each cheek a red spot burned. Her lips were scar
let and feverish. She constantly tapped her small
slippered toe upon the floor. Restlessly she moved
from one part of the room to another, quite upset
ting her maid, who had never before seen her mis
tress like this.
Mrs. Wayland went to her to bid her good-night.
“Darling, I fear you are not well enough to go out
this evening and to be up so late tonight.”
Christiania somewhat impatiently turned away,
saying, “You are quite mistaken, Auntie, dear,
perfectly well. lam a little tired now with dress
ing, as I am so anxious to look my very best this
evening. This is my first theatre party in New
York, and given especially in my honor, so I must
be equal to the occasion. As you see, Auntie dear,
this is the life I must lead as Mrs. Julian Deveaux,
and there is no way out of it. So please try to con
tent yourself with letting me have my way for a
time.
Mrs. Wayland’s eyes filled with tears, but in her
sweet, quiet way she kissed Christiana and only
said, “Good night, darling.”
When her aunt had gone, Christiana said to her
maid, “Martha, I am so tired and faint, bring me
a glass of wine.”
Just as she had drained the last drop, there was
a knock on her door, then an exquisite bouquet of
white roses was handed her, and on the card with
them was simply the name, Julian Deveaux. As
she took the exquisite flowers, her heart softened a
little. If her husband had presented them to her
in person just at that moment, her heart would
have melted, all would have been forgiven, and the
sweet old life have been begun anew. She inhaled
their swet perfume, looked a moment at the for
mal card, then for some moments was lost in medi
tation. Pictures of her childhood, her girlhood, her
wifehood, tame before her. She tried to draw the
curtain from the future, but she was left with a
vague feeling of groping about in the darkness of
a deserted land upon which the light of the sun
would never more shine.
She was aroused by another knock at the door.
A magnificent box of crimson roses was handed her,
accompanying which was a card bearing the name,
Horace Bradmore, and on the back of which was
written, “May I see you a moment?’
The two bouquets seemed to have been spirit
possessed. As she looked at the crimson one, her
face took on an expression unsuited to her. Her
form seemed to rise in stature from the fury within
her. Her breathing quickened. Some determina
tion was suddenly reached. She threw the white
roses upon the floor, and as she moved about the
room, her train swept them hither and thither, until
they were trampled and crushed.
u Martha, I prefer the red roses this evening,
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