The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1933-03-17


Blanche's party dress by candle-light
as they stood before it. It had grown
very cold outside, and the many-paned
windows were frosting over with deli.
, cate shapes. The man, looking towards
them from the fire, suddenly shivered
little. They were SO icy and spark
ling, rejecting the frozen moonlight
out there, that there was something
of almost unearthly loneliness about
them, something ghostly
"Blanche," he said abruptly, when
you fixed up Carte Blanche, what did
you do with those old law books that
were here"
Blanche was standing before the
mirror, combing her hair. She did
not even turn.
"They were SO musty and shabby
and dry-looking, l burned them up.
Why. did you want them?"
"No. Did you burn them alp
"Yes."
"Read any Of them first?"
mo. could tell by the looks that
they were dull. Not what you and l
wanted in our lovely home"
She walked across the room to him.
her golden hair falling over her Shout
ders, her soft white dressing-gown
flowing from her bare neck and arms
In an unbroken line to the floor. De-
liberately, she blew out the Pickering
candles, one after the other, and, in
the dim freight, put her arms around
his neck.
ut is lovely; isn't it?" she whis-
pered.
Philip bent over her. There was
something in her manner that had
never been there before. Was she,
too, feeling the mystery and power
of the night? Had these last weeks
of separation been teaching her. too
teaching her the lessons that for
time, 1t seemed as If he, for all his
love, had failed to make clear to her?
Was the dread which had been slowly
growing through the spring and sum-
mer that his white star was to prove
only will-o'-the-wisp, to be taken
from him after all?
"Yes, sweetheart. beautiful" he an
swered. "But ] want you to know a
story that was in one of those books
you burned. just the same. If you don't
already. ought to have spoken Of
1t to you before"
AS quietly as he could, he told her
first of his reading of the legend and
then of his talk with Mary about it
afterwards.
81 can't pretend to explain it. But
1t seems to me the first Blanche
didn't want to hurt any person, espe-
cially-that it isn't curse in that
sense to teach her descendants.
If she could. what a terrible thing it Is
to be selfish. Most of all. the selfish
ness that calls itself love. Occasion
ally mothers feel that kind of love for
their sons, or children for their par
ents. or husbands for their wives"
you mean that Is the kind that
Colonel Moses felt for the countess"
said Blanche slowly. "and-and it's
been so, straight through the family.
That's the way mother cares for Paul.
That's the way-that's the way
cared for you-once. But, oh, don't
any more!'
THAT isn't the way I've cared for
you." said Philip. I'm not very strong,
and I'm not very good. | don't think
that for minute. But do love you
iii hoo nd
that makes more difference than any
thing else, believe. That curse is
never going beyond this generation,
and you must tell me tonight. that
you're glad-IN ought to have gone to
war when first knew it was the right
thing for me to do. We can't help
that now. But you've got to say
you're glad I'm going now"
His arms frightened around her, his
lips. meeting hers, lay for long time
against them.
IF only we had son"
whenever think of Lady Blanche
farm" he went on. after long silence,
~ think of you and the brook-its
freshness and fragrance and purity.
It's shallow in places. it rushes into
little falls, but where | found you, it
widens to deep pool. clear as crystal,
a haven of refreshment and delight
and-holiness. That's what you seem
to me tonight-do you understand?
Oh, my darling"
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