Staunton vindicator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1860-1896, 1885-10-09
CHAPTER XxXIII.

i AN MAD.
If by any chance Beatrice, who certainly
had trouble enough to make her wakeful,
had risen with the dawn of the morning
which followed the tragedy, and looked out
of her easement she would have seen sight
which would have caused her much surprise.
She would have seen Sarah Miller, whom
she believed to be in England, standing on
the opposite side of the street, utter despair
and anguish written in every lineament,
gazing at her mistress window like one
bidding the object, the dearest on earth, an
eternal farewell-eternal because even the
consoling hope of a meeting in some future
state is absent. But Beatrice, who, in the
earlier watches of the night, had been awake
for hours with her sorrow, slept on until the
sun was high. Perhaps it was well for her
she did so.
The poor self-appointed instrument for
working the divine will had, after she left
the scene of her dark work, wandered about
the outskirts of Munich, aimlessly and hope
lessly. Had it been broad daylight. and
had there been persons to see her, an ocoa.
sional stuffed moan and a wringing of the
hands would have been all that showed the
agony of mind she endured. But it was not,
as might be supposed, the agony of remorse.
1t was agony at the thought of the further
aacrifice which such sense as still was hers
told her she must make, in order that the de-
sired and predestined results might follow
tie act of the night.
She was mad and she was not mad. On
what may be called the religious side of the
question, her mind, as may be guessed from
her deeds, was gone EAST redemption, 1t
may be that this had been her true state for
years; ever since she had accepted as true
the memorable logic Of creed which she had
partly been taught, partly framed for her.
self. The fire may have been burning for
years giving now and again transient flashes,
and only waiting for certain circumstances
to fan it to a consuming flame. The fierce
burst was now over, but the fire would burn
and nQt again be hidden until it had devoured
life as well as reason
She had killed, murdered this man in all
but cold blood. Apart from the horror at
tendant on the actual execution of the crime,
horror which began to haunt her and be
ever with her, she felt no poignant misery,
no maddening regret. In her wild, dis
jointed way she lamented, not the mans
death, but the fact that she had been chosen
to bring it about. She lamented it even as
Judas might have lamented the hard fate
which, in order that prophecy might be full
filled, singled him out, and decreed that he
should betray his Master And, if it be true
that a providence saves and Stays who shall
say that the woman's mad reasoning was
unsounda
On the other side, the material side, Sarah
Miller was, as yet, sane, Or nearly so. She
could look forward, plan, and even carry
out. And the anguish which racked her
mind was the homecoming of the truth,
that her act must part her and her mis-
tress for ever. Here was the GROWING
sacrifice. Here was, perhaps, the earthly
punishment, Never again to gaze into that
dear face; never again to hear that loved
voice; never again to be near her to minister
to her wants, to aid her, scheme for her,
and, if needs be, sin for her. Never to see
her in the happiness which had been so dearly
bought Here was the sacrifice! 1t must
be made, and she must find strength to make
it, and skill to insure its being of use.
To see her mistress, to meet her even once
more would be to ruin all. She must never
know whose hand it was bore her freedom.
She would never suspect that her servant
had been the means Of cutting the knot
which it seemed no earthly power could undo.
All, no earthly power could have undons it.
So when at last the morning broke gray,
and trees and other objects doomed phantom
like and unreal through the mist, Sarah
Miller planned and schemed, seeking the
way to insure what she had so dearly
bought. All her thoughts reached one end.
She must fly far, far from the spot Bea-
trlce must never hear of her again; never
know that she left London. II her prox-
unity to the dead man became known the
truth might be guessed and all be lost.
Yet before she went she must see the
house in which her darling lived. She must
stoop and kiss the doorstep on which those
loved feet had trodden. She must watt her
one passionate and unheeded fare well, then
leave the place and be as one dead.
She struggled against the desire, but it
overcame her. With the first streaks of
daylight she entered the sleeping city, and,
utterly worn out, stood before her mistress