The Minneapolis journal. [volume] (Minneapolis, Minn.) 1888-1939, 1904-05-28
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and she had torn open the cupboard.
She poured out some brandy, and
brought 1T to him. He drank it in
snort gulps and then leant his head
| Never mind,'' he whispered pres
entity. Don't tell me anything but
Just this: Is the child safe? You
didn't, you wouldn't let him get at
Beatrice began to tremble SO vio-
lently that he raised his head and
grlpped her arm fiercely.
| Great Heavens! Why don't you
answer? Where is she ~
Quite safe-when left her-with
Mrs. Bream. painted Beatrice. Don't.
don t! This was uttered in a heart
broken whisper, for the look of thank
fulness in his face when she told him
this struck her anew with a sense of
her own guilt towards him.
mere, then, you needn't tell me
anything else said he, as he still held
her arm. While she is safe, and you
are with me, I don't trouble my head
about much. MaySI say that, madam?
rules you have laid down for you and
me ~
1t was more than she, in her over
wrought condition, could bear. Once
more she found confession trembling
upon her lips.
Don't speak kindly to me-" she
cried, trying hard not to show any
| excitement but to keep her tones at
a. matter-of-fact level. some day
you will know don't deserve it. /"
Well, when I learn your many
crimes, said he, as she disengaged
herself and retreated to the door, j
shall forgive them all. I like you-I
like you for your womanliness, for
your tenderness to my child, your sub
missiyeness and gentleness with me-. I
like your coWardice, I like your help
lessness. I don't always like those
qualities, but like yours. And so |
shall forgive you. There's only one
fault I can't forgive Of all a woman
! can have"
"And that IS ?" faltered Bea-
trice, with her hand upon the door.
Deceit" said he.
Beatrice turned to him with lit
| tie bitter laugh.
"Y ou've uttered my condemnation
then" said she, in a hoarse voice.
What do you mean? Tell me what
you mean?"
IT can t-now. Let me 60" For
he had seized her by the hand. He Her
voice was so stern, so despairing, that
involuntarily he let her go again. =
can leave you safely now, can't II"
asked she, keeping herself well under
control, with a new hardness which
Eyes, oh, yes. Goodbye, Mrs.
Froyle.''
She gave him one long look. The
| fire had blazed up and gave a suffl-
Client light for every detail of the room
and it's appointments to be visible to
/ her. The bookcases, the carpet with
it's ugly stain, the chairs, the sofa; and
Lord Catherington, with detection and
| IN ,ic a
leaning against the mantelpiece, draw
ing his breath hard.
'I'll-Tll send someone to you
Eyes, please send Sam, the little
groom, said he. '.I shall be much
obliged to you if you will"
His tone was one of ordinary cour-
tesy, and in itself it was a rebuke, a
reproach. with her heart nigh to
| bursting Beatrice made her way down
/ the rickety outside staircase, and
scrambled back towards the house.
Never before had she felt so strong
~ the power this man had OF making
her happy or miserable with word, a
look To the bitter self-reproach
/ with which she had always contem-
| plated the fact that she had deceived
him, imposed upon him, there came
now the knowledge that she had be-.
trayed even his faith in womanhood.
Since it was clear that, whatever he
might think Of her weakly half CON
fessions, he looked upon her as in
capable Of a serious sin.
i To know that this man whom she
half unconsciously loved was the man
| Of all others whom she had wronged,
drove her like a goad. What punish
ment could be severe enough for such
a criminal as she was? She felt her
self to%be as unworthy of the possess
sionsF of her own child, as she was Of
ID the respect and esteem Of this man.
Il How could she look down upon Rosa
4 when she herself had done wrong a
Thousand times worse, SHINING without
the excuse Of a callous or careless
nature?
2. She was nervous and unllinged, SO
4 miserable that only the strongest effort
of self-control kept her from weeping
as she went. Surely. surely it was only
because of her fears, her anxietieS,
/ that there rang in her ears the sound
of a child's voice uttering a faint and
! wailing cry!
Altho she was convinced that it was
her fancy which was playing tricks
with her, for the sound was so faint
i that she could not believe it to be
anything but the work Of her magma
I ton, Beatrice instinctiyely stopped to
listen. There was a dead silence ex-
cept for the slight night noises, the
movement of a light breeze among the
leafess branches Of the beeehes, and
among the dry leaves Of the evergreen
oaks.
She went on again, but forcing her
way out Of the wood, she got into the
open ground, where she could see bet
ter. And even as she broke her way
thru, the faint Wailing came to her
ears again. Was it from the sea ?
She turned quickly, and saw, crossing
the glimmering path of dulled silver,
on which the moon, struggling still IN
a mist of clouds, cast its rays, black
4 speck moving slowly towards the left.
1t was a rowing boat. The sight was
not strange one Fishermen went
out with their lobster-pots, or on one
errand or another, in the evening as
very late. And she found herself
watching the boat, and wondering who
was in it, and whether the faint cry
she had heard came from the tiny
craft.
Il Then her attention was diverted by
: a noise which was going on in the
stable yard; the clatter of hoofs, the
voices of the stablemen, followed by
the gallop-gallop of a. horse down the
| drive on the other side of the house.
She remembered Lord Gathering
toms request, that she would send the
young groom, Sam, to the chalet; and
she was making he way across the
grass in the direction of the stables
! when, passing the draWing-room as
the had to do, she noticed that the
lights were still shining from within
, brightly thru the blinds, and then,
on nearer inspection, she saw that
the window which had been broken
Il by Robert Burnet was still unfastened.
With an ugly, underlined fear OF
| evil of n hoo rt oh