Weekly expositor. (Brockway Centre, Mich.) 1882-1894, 1888-10-25
CHAPTER XVIII.
I CAN NOT LIVE THIS LIFE. I"

place. She fixed on Germany for various
reasons. She had that feeling, which
justly or unjuslly, is common to most
English people, that an unprotected and
not unattractive woman is more free IRON
annoyance in German than in a French
town. She also fancied she knew the
German language better than she knew
French.
AS the party had left Blac Ntowa pro-
vided with no travelling indispensables,
except the most important of all, money,
many purchases had TO be made in Lon
don. All were, however, made in time to
catch the evening train for Dover, and
that night Beatrice and her charges cross
| ed the channel Then 1t seemed to her
she was once more able 10 breathe. In
London she had been haunted by the
dread that Eervey would follow and find
her. Once out of England she felt safe.
Ones out of England they travelled by
easy stages, and eventually reached their
dest ination-Munich. The city on In
spection seemed as suited as any other to
| BeaIrice's needs, SO she hired a furnished
fir engaged good-tempered, handy Ba-
varlan servant, and settled down to that
quiet, calm life which she had in her let
tiers to the Talberts described herself as
| living.
These letters were sent under cover to
a friend OF Mrs. Miller's who POSTED them
in London. She did not write to her
father. She fancled her proceedings
would not trouble him much, and felt
sure that any letter sent t. him would run
the gauntlet of Lady Clauson's unkind
comments She trusted 10 Horace and
Herbert to let him know all they knew.
Beatrice made few, il any, chance ac-
quaintance. So for society she had her
boy and her faithful slave, Mrs. Miller.
However much a mother may love her
child, she Is not blamed If she finds that
his constant company does not give all
pleasure the world can give. However
faithful and intelligent a servant may be
the mis- ress may with clear conscience
look beyond her for a companion.
So Beatrice's life grew once more dis
NAL and colorless, So much so, that
under its present conditions the late life
| Ha lewOOd House, when contrasted with
! it, seemed wild round OF variety and
dissipation.
Beatrice was sitting one afternoon in
| the room she called her studio. She was
alode and in deep thought ohe had just
finished one OF her periodical letters to
her uncles. 1t was lying near her, di-
rooted, but not sealed. Beatrice was
wrestling with the tempta ion OF sending
n message to frank. She could not bear
to picture him thinking her cold and
heartess. Sh uld she add line to her
! letter! Should she even write him let
ter But what could she say TO him?
Nothing, abs lutely nothing Besides,
provided he ha not yet learned the
Truth, the most conventional message
from her would raise hoIeS never to be
realized. Poor Frank. why did no learn
10 love her Why did she love him? No,
lot that. She was happy that she lovel
in; that she found the power of loving
and trusting still hers, Yes, hopeless as
such love was, she re DICED that she could
love such man as Frank. But no word,
no message must DO sent.
IT is part of the price | must pay for
my folly" she said, as she sealed her
letter. Her eyes were full of tears "a she
did so. Mrs. Miller entered and saw her
emotion.
My sweet, my dear" she said; "what
is IT. there is no fresh trouble?'
None, the old one is enough" said
Beatrice. Mrs. Miller looked at her So
lictously,
you are thinking OF the man who
loves you" she said soothingy.
Eyes" said Beatrc with the recovered
composure. ''Yes, | am III hiking that
may haze wrecked his life as we'll as my
Gwn.'
''So, no, my poor dear. 1t will come
right. You will be happy-he will be
happy
Beatrice smiled hopeless smile.
1t will bet is written" continued
Mrs. Miller. Nothing can change it.
God arm is not shortened. His pur-
p Sc"
Beatrice checkel her sternly. Since
Sarah's outbreak in the train all signs OF
ianaticism had been at once repressed by
Beatrice. my letter is ready" she
said; take it and direct il TO your friend.
There are envelopes.
Sarah glanced at her mis- ress, who was
once more deep in thought. She took two
envelopes aud also a stray half sheet of
note paper Then she went into another
70 m and hastily writing a few words on
tie paper placed it in an envelope ad-
dressed it. and incloSed it with Beatrice s
letter, in the packet which was to go to
her friend in London.
Beatrice resumed her painful train Of
thoughts. She began to ask herself the
questions which had recently been franz
ing themselves in her mind. Had she
after all acted in the wiseSt way If she
turned and firmly grasped her nettle,
would the sting be fatal. or even more
than she could bear? She began to loathe
this hiding, this shrinking into corners.
Could she nerve herself to come forth and
face he worst?
What was the worst? The worst was
her dread OF losing her child. What ii
she wrote to Horace and Herbert and told
them everything; heggel them to forgive
the harmless deceit which she
had practiced; entreated them to
see this man and make such terms
as they could? Might she not, when they
had assured her security and peace, face
such scorn as the world would throw
her?
Then she began to wonder il Hervey
had revealed the truth? If her father,
Lady Clauson-here she shuddered-h
uncles know that she was this mans wife.
Although she had just been resolving to
make it known to them, the thought OF
their being In possession of the knowledge
was horrible TO her. Yet all this while
they might have known it--might have
heard it from Hersey's lips. This thought
half maddened he. She must learn If il
was so.
Che thounbt .l,oA ..ooao