Moths by Ouida — page 364: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

860. MOTHS. rehended why he chose to live so, in the full light of publicity, or her sake. She thought of him this evening, in that dull gra light which spread like a veil over the mournful plains of Polan Would he not forget as the world forgot her? why not? She had no pride for him. At that moment, as the day declined, a servant brought her etters. : Lettezc came to Szarisla but twice in the week, fetched by a horseman from the little town. The first letter she took out of the leather sack was from her husband. It was very brief. It paid merely: ‘*Paul de Sonnaz died suddenly last week. If you will consent to pay a visit of ceremony and respect to his wife in her retire- ment at Ruilhieres. I shall welcome you to Paris with pleasure, If not, if you still choose to disobey me and insult me, you must remain at Szarisla, which I regret to hear from Ivan does not appear to suit your health.” There was nothing more, except his signature. The letter was the result of the promise he had given to his sister. Vere tore it in two. . The next. she opened was a long and tender one from Nadine Nelaguine, urging deference to his wishes, and advising concession on this point of a mere visit of condolence to Ruilhieres, with all — the arguments that tact and affection and unscrupulousness could together supply to the writer. ’ The next three or four were unimportant. The last wasa packet addressed in a hand unknown to her. She cpened it without attention. Out of the cover fell three letters in her mother’s handwriting. Wondering and aroused, she read them over. They were let- - ters ten years old—letters of her mother to Zouroff; letters for- gotten when others were burned the week before his marriage; forgotten, and left in the tortoise-shell casket. At ten o’clock on the following night, as Prince Zouroff sat at dinner in the Grand Circle a telegram was brought to him, It was from his wife: ‘¢ Never approach me: let me live and die here.” CHAPTER XXIX, SZARISLA had hidden many sad and many tragic lives. It hid that of Vere. To her husband she perished as utterly as though she was dead. From remote districts of the North, news travels slowly-—never travels at all, unless it be expressly sent: Vere had so seldom written to any one that it scarcely seemed strange that she never wrote at all. The world had almost ceased to inquire for her; it thought she had withdrawn herself into retirement from religious caprice, or from morbid sentiment, or from an unreturned pas- sion, or that she had been sent into that exile for some fault: whenever women spoke of her they preferred to think this, they revived old rumors. For the rest, silence covered her life, i Her sister-in-law wept honest tears, reviled her brother witk | = comicbooks.co