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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.'” ■ ■_ ' y 7 -i J, I * ' Wl I IlSij t ■h if tdi |j| ||F ci - “ 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, 13