Omaha daily bee., 1885-09-07

CHAPTER xxvI. CONTINUED.
Through Mrs. Miller, Of course. And by bis
uew light he was able TO explain a discrep-
Ancy which had always troubled him. On
the night when she babe. him hope and wait,
The nurse had told him that Beatrice had
taved her years G from starvation, where
%, Horace had told him, that until she came
TO the house, she was a stranger to them all.
He had not thought it worth while to pursue
the inquiry.
She, this strangely hammered woman, had
made him promise to wait. Wait for WHAT
There was nothing to wait for. Even il he,
as he ~scornfully told himself he could, should
forget his manhood and be willing to take
Beatrice as his wife even now, he knew that
a barrier, never to be climbed, would be
raised by her. He did not wrong her in this.
He knew that for all that had befallen she
was mourning in mental sackcloth and
ashes. He had no blame to give her, no
stone to cast.
She had not tried TO win his love. She had
mot accepted that love when offered. Too
well he knew why. Yet he knew also that
she loved him-loved him but would never
DO his. The thought drove him half mad.
No friend of Carruthers' would have known
him, as, with heavy brows and bent head,
he walked through those quiet streets Of
suburban London.
But why the fight No new dread, no
new danger could have threatened her. Did
she after all fly because he was coming to
Hazlewood House2 Did she fear that her
resolution must give way, and with one
breath she must avow her love, and with the
next tell her lover that love could not he be-
tween them2 No. A word from her would
have stayed his coming. She had even as
good as asked him to come. She was not
flying from him.
Then the thought Of that man who was
seeking her came to his mind. He shuddered
Rnd bit his lip; he knew not why. But his
hrst thought was to trace this unknown man
and hear why he wanted Beatrice.
His mood changed. He would not seek
him. He had no more to learn. After what
he had this morning heard all inquiries, all
information, could but tend to make him
more miserable. There was nothing now
left for him in the world but sheer hard
work. Work, work, work, the greatest
blessing ever given to man.
So he walked on and on, almost crying in
his anguish, almost raving in his liter help
lessness to mend matters. But all the while,
do what he could to tear his idol out Of her
shrine, thinking Of her as the calm, fair,
stately girl he had known and loved, the one
of all the world against whom SANDER should
raise no voice.
Before his aimless walk was ended his
mood had grown soft and plying. Anger
had simply faded away. All he could now
think of was Beatrice and her sorrow. All
he asked was to be able to see her and tell
her there was one who would ever be as a
brother to her. The wild resolve that he
would now ~acquiesce in her disappearance as
calmly as did her uncles disappeared. He
would find her. He would go to her, take
her hand, tell her the secret was his, coun-
sci her, and, if it were possible, stand be-
tween her and what she had to bear.
But he knew now, or thought he knew,
the utmost that life had to give him, and
he saw in it a sorry substitute for what
it had seemed to promise only a few days
ago.
Blame herl Why should he blame heri
How had she wronged him9