The Argosy — page 165: what you’re looking at

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

By the Sad Sea Waves. 153 should Ae stand between us?—that base, bad man who has wrecked your life ?” I put out my hand, aghast. Ottalie, aghast too, turns her white face to him inquiringly. . “Don’t you see that it is not an ordinary case?” he asks. ‘What does it signify———that a few carping Puritans may carp atit? Ottalie, my dear one, come with me! Ican make you happy now and always.” He waves me aside. I stand aside, and wait. It seems to me like an eternity ; but I know I can trust Ottalie. She frees herself slowly from him. ‘Good-bye, dear love,” she whispers. “Good-bye?” he echoes. ‘What do you mean? You Bicaanot, you will not, send me away, Ottalie ——” “I am his—wife,” she whispers, drawing a long, quivering breath. “Itis a pity you did not remember that sooner,” he says, his angry mood returning. But the next moment he is drawing her to him again. “Remembered it before you played with me.” “T know it,” she says, humbly. “But if I played with you it was dangerous play ; for—I think I have wounded myself to death.” “ Ottalie, eve me,” he cries; “I think I am going mad. “No, no, no! don’t tempt me, please,” she sobs, leaving him where he stands. “Go, Mr. Daine ; please go, for all is over. And I would ask you to forget me if—but no, don’t forget me quite,” she breaks off, with a cry of pain; “not quite, not quite. Only try not to—to blame me more than you can help.” Her tears break out at last between the dry sobs. His only answer is to snatch her to him and kiss her frantically—her face, her slender hands, even her hair. “Go,” she gasps out; “ please go, Jasper.” And go he does. And the next moming, before Sone is well astir, Ottalie and I and our boxes go off like the shame-faced things we are. The sea-shore again. More sand and fewer houses than at Sone; we are a hundred miles from that delectable spot. Sone was not much ; but this—who shall describe its dreariness? Sometimes I think I cannot bear it. It is the fag-end of the world; hardly any- thing but the lighthouse to see. Weeks have passed since we came ; the signs of winter are at hand. What shall we do when winter comes? I am sitting on the doorstep, and Ottalie is walking up and down as if she had been wound up and warranted to go so many hours ; her eyes are fastened on the sea, and her long grey skirt stirs the leaves that lie dead on the path. _ “T’d just as soon be in my grave as here,” I groan—for in truth all things wear a cruel aspect to me to-day. Ql comicbooks.com