The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936, 1893-06-09

hOuBut-Wo drO ucdrly VI al dS6-
quite, perhaps, for I am not yet
twenty-six. But. then, it is not the
years" She stopped suddenly.
Beatrice wondered whether Unorna
married or not. Considering
the age she admitted anti her extreme
beauty, it seemed probable that she
must be. 1t occurred to her that the
acquaintance had been made without
any presentation, and that neither
knew the others name.
'.Since / am a little the younger"
she said, Il should tell you who I
am"
Unorna made a light movement.
She vas on the point of saying that
she knew already-and too we'll.
ii I'm Beatrice Varanger."
81 am Unorna." She could not
help a sort of cold defiance that
sounded in her tone as she pronounced
the only name she could 5ail hers.
..U~norna?" Beatrice repeated cour-
teously enough. but with an air of
surprise.
.'Yes-that's all. 1t see rs strange
to you? They cali M so because 1
was born in February. N The month
we call Unor. Indeed, it is strange,
and so is my story-though it could
have little interest for you"
Forgive me-you are wrong. 1t
would interest me immensely-if
you would tell me a little OF it-but 1
am such a stranger to you"
II do not feel as though you were
that" Unorna answered, with a very
gentle smile.
You are very kind to say So" said
Beatrice. quietly.
She related her history, so far as it
vas known to herself, simply and
graphically. substantially as it has
been already set forth, but with an
abundance of ancedote and comment,
which enhanced the interest. and at
the same time extended its limits, in
~terspersing her monologues with re-
marks which called for an answer,
and which served as tests of her COM
panion's attention.
Then you are not married?'
Beatrice's tone expressed an ~interro-
cation, and a certain surprise.
NO." said Unorna," Il am not
married. And you. if I may askP"
NO" said Beatrice in an altered
voice, Il am not married. / shall
never marry"
A short silence followed, during
which she turned her face away.
II have panied you" said Unorna,
with profound sympathy and regret.
''Forgiye me! How could l be so
tactlessr'
'sHow could you know" Beatrice
asked simply, not attempting TO deny
the suggestion. But Unorna was suf-
fering. too. She had allowed her.
self to imagine that in the long years
which had passed Beatrice might have
forgotten. 1t had even crossed her
mind that she might, indeed, be mar
ried. But in the few words, and in
the tremor that accompanied them, as
well as in the increased pallor in
Beatrice's face, she detected a love
not less deep and constant and unfor-
gotten than the Wanderers own.
"Forgive me-" Unorna repeated.
81 might have guessed. I have loved,
too"
For a long time neither spoke again,
and neither looked at the other.
Beatrice seemed scarcely conscious
of what she was saying, or of Unorna's
presence. The words, long kept back
and sternly restrained, fell with a
strange strength from her lips, and
there was not one of them from first
to last that did not sheathe itself like
a sharp knife in Unorna's heart.
Il cannot tell you why 1 have told
you-but l have. You shall see him,
too. What does it matter? We have
both loved. we r both unhappy-we
shall never meet again"
What is it?" Unorna tried to ask,
holding the closed case in her hands.
''It was like him." she said, watching
effect the portrait would produce.
Then she sank back.
'.You knew him!" she cried, half
g uessing at the truth.
Il know him-and 1 owe him" said
Unorna slowly and iercely, her ayes
fixed on her enemy and gradually
leaning toward her so as to bring her
face carer and nearer to Beatrice.
: The dark woman tried to rise, and
could not. There was worse than an
ger, or hatred, Dr. the intent to kill,
in those dreadful eyes. There was a
fascination from when no living thing
could escape. She tried to scream, to
shut out the vision, to raise her hand
as q screen before it. Nearer and
nearer it came, until she could feel the
warm breath Of 1t upon her cheek.
Then her brain reeled, her limbs re-
Taxed, and her head fell back against
the wall.
Il know him, and / love him.. were
the last words Beatrice heard.
Unorna gradually regained her self
possession. After all, Beatrice had
told her nothing which she did not
either wholly know or partly guess,
and her anger vas not the result of
the revelation but of the way in which
the story had been told. Word after
word, phrase after phrase had cut her