Short Story Audiobook Narration
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EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
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Chapter two. If you had come upon the bundle of letters in the first flush of his poignant sorrow, there would not have been an instance hesitancy. To destroy it promptly and without question would have seemed a welcome expression of devotion, a way of reaching her of crying out his love to her while the world was still filled with the illusion of her presence. But months had passed since that spring day, when they had found her stretched upon the floor, clutching the key of her writing desk, which she appeared to have been attempting to reach when death overtook her. The day was much like that day a year ago, when the leaves were falling in the rain, pouring steadily from a leaden sky, which held no gleam, no promise. He had happened accidentally upon the package in that remote nook of her desk and just as she herself had done a year ago, he carried it to the table and laid it down there, standing, staring with puzzled eyes at the message, which confronted him. I leave this package to the care of my husband, with perfect faith in his loyalty in his love, I asked him to destroy it unopened. She had made no mistake. Every line of his face, no longer young, spoke loyalty and honesty, and his eyes were as faithful as the dogs and is loving. He was a tall, powerful man, standing there in the firelight with shoulders that stooped a little and terror that was growing somewhat thin and gray, and a face that was distinguished and must have been handsome when he smiled. But he was slow. Destroy it unopened, he read half aloud. But why unopened? He took the package again in his hands and turning it about and feeling it, discover that it was composed of many letters tightly packed together. So here were letters which she was asking him to destroy unopened. She had never seemed in her lifetime toe, have had a secret from him. He knew her toe have been cold and passionless, but true and watchful of his comfort and his happiness. Might he not be holding in his hands the secret of some other one which have been confided to her and what she had promised to guard? But no, she would have indicated the fact by some additional word or line the secret was her own something contained in these letters, and she wanted it to die with her. If he could have thought of her. Is on some distant, shadowy shore waiting for him throughout the years with outstretched hands to come and join her again. He would not have hesitated with hopeful confidence. He would have thought in that blessed meeting time, soul to soul she will tell me all Till then I can wait and trust. But he could not think of her in any far off paradise awaiting him. He felt that there was no smallest part of her anywhere in the universe more than there had been before. She was born in the world, but she had embodied herself with terrible significance and an intangible wish uttered when life still coursed through her veins, knowing that it would reach him when the annihilation of death was between them, but uttered with all confidence in its power and potency, he was moved by the splendid daring magnificence of the act, which at the same time exalted him and lifted him above the head of common mortals. What secret save one? Could a woman choose toe have die with her as quickly as a suggesting came to his mind so swiftly to the man instinct of possession creep into his blood, his fingers cramped about the package in his hands and he sink into a chair beside the table, the agonizing suspicion that perhaps another hand shared with him her thoughts, her affections, her life deprived him for swift instant of honor and reason. He thrust the end of its strong thumb beneath the string, which, with a single turn, would have yielded with perfect faith in your loyalty and your love. It was not the written characters addressing themselves to the eye. It was like a voice speaking to a soul with a tremor of anguish. He bowed his head down upon the letters. He had once seen a clairvoyant hold a letter to his forehead and report, and so doing to discover its contents. He wondered for a wild moment of such a gift for force of wishing it might not come to him. But it was only conscious of the smooth surface of the paper gold against his brow like the touch of a dead woman's hand. 1/2 hour passed before he lifted his head. An unspeakable conflict had raged within him, but his loyalty and his love had conquered. His face was pale and deep lined with suffering, but there was no more hesitancy to be seen there. He did not for a moment think of casting the thick package into the flames to be licked by the fiery tongues and charred and half revealed his eyes. That was not what she meant. He arose and, taking a heavy bronze paperweight from the table, bounds it securely to the package. He walked to the window and looked out into the street below. Darkness had come and it was still raining. He could hear the rain dashing against the window panes and could see it falling for the doll, yellow rim of light cast by the lighted street lamp. He prepared himself to go out, and, when quite ready to leave, the house thrust the weighted package into the deep pocket of his topcoat. He did not hurry along the street, as most people were doing at that hour, but walked with a long, slow, deliberate step, not seeming to mind the penetrating chill and rain driving into his face. Despite the shelter of his umbrella. His dwelling was not far removed from the business section of the city, and it was not a great while before he found himself at the entrance of the bridge that spans the river, the deep, broad, swift Black River dividing two states. He walked on and out to the very center of the structure. The wind was blowing fiercely and keenly. The darkness where he stood with Impenetrable. The thousands of lights in the city he had left seemed like all the stars of heaven must together, sinking into some distant, mysterious horizon, leaving him alone in a black, boundless universe, he drew the package from his pocket and leaning as faras. He could over the broad stone rail of the bridge, cast it from him into the river. It fell straight and swiftly from his hand. He could not follow its descent through the darkness, nor here it's dip into the water far below. It vanished silently, seemingly into some kinky, unfathomable space. He felt as if he were flinging it back to her in that unknown world, whether she had gone