There arose before him a picture of
the fair young girl he had loved--the gentle-eyed Inez--the confiding
young thing he was to have married, had not the hand of a cruel jealousy
cut short her brief existence. Arabel saw his emotion, and pressed his
hand in hers, so cold and icy.
"You have suffered also, Louis, but not as I have suffered--O, no! O, the
days before _he_ came--_he_, the destroyer! What a handsome face he had,
and how he flattered me! Flattered my foolish pride, until, deserting
home and friends, I fled with him across the seas! To Paris--beautiful,
frivolous, crime-imbued Paris. I am so faint and tired, Louis! Give me a
drink, from the wineglass."
He put it to her lips; she swallowed greedily, and resumed:
"I have written out my history fully. Why, I hardly know, for there are
none but you, Louis, who will feel an interest in the poor outcast. But
something has impelled me to write it, and when I am dead, you will find
it there in that desk, sealed and directed to yourself. Maybe you will
never open it, for if my strength does not desert me, I shall tell you
all that you will care to know, with my own lips. I want to watch your
face, as I go on, and see if you condemn me. You are sure God is more
merciful than man?"
"In His word it is written, Arabel.
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