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GRADY COUNTY PROGRESS, CAIRO, GEORGIA.
GEORGE BARR ESCUTCHEON
LLUSTEATI0N5 ^ KAY WALTERS
COPYP/wr, w*.
B)> DOOO, PJ£AD
A/fO COHPAftY
' CHAPTER XIX—Continued.
-13-
Brood stopped him with an Impa
tient gesture. • “I must as.k you not to
discuss Mrs. Brood, Joe—or you, Dan.”
"I was Just going to Bay, Jim, that If
I was you I'd thank the Lord that she's
going to do it," substituted Mr. Riggs,
somewhat hastily. “She’s a wonder
ful nurse. She told me a bit ago that
ahe was going to save his life in spite
of the doctor.”
“What does Doctor Hodder say?” de
manded Brood, pausing in his restless
pacing of the floor.’
“He says the poor boy is as good as
dead,” said Mr. Riggs.
“Ain’t got a chance in a million,”
said Mr. Dawes.
They were surprised to see Brood
wince. He hadn’t been so thin-sklnn* *
in the olden days. His nerve was go
ing back on him, that’s what it was,
poor Jim! Twenty years ago he would
have stiffened his back and taken it
like a man. It did not occur to them
that they might have broken the news
.to him with tact and consideration,
“But you can depend on us, Jim, to
pull him through,” Bald Mr. Riggs
quickly. “Remember how we saved
you back there in Calcutta when all
the fool doctors said you hadn't
chance? Well, sir, we'll still—’’
"If any feller can get well with a
bullet through his—” began Mr. Dawes
encouragingly, but stopped abruptly
•when he saw Brood put his hands over
his eyes and sink dejectedly into a
chair, a deep groan on his lips.
"I guess we’d better go,” whispered
Mr. Riggs, after a moment of inde
cision and then, inspired by a certain
fear for his friend, struck the gong re
soundingly. Silently they made their
way out of the room, encountering
Ran jab just outside the door.
“You must stick to it, Ranjab," said
Mr. Riggs sternly.
“With your dying breath," added Mr.
Dawes, and the Hindu, understanding,
gravely nodded his head.
“Well?” said Brood, long afterward,
raising his haggard face to meet the
gaze of the motionless brown man who
had been standing In his presence for
many minutes.
“Miss Lydia ask permission of sahib
to be near him untiT the end,” said the
Hindu. “She will not go away. I have
heard the words she say to the sa-
hibah, and the sahibah as silent as the
tomb. She say no word for herself,
just sit and look at the floor and never
move. Then she sccubo the sahibah of
being tho cause of the young master’s
death, and the sahibah only nod her
head to that, and go out of the room,
and up to the place where the young
master is, and they cannot keep her
from going in. She Just look at the
woman in the white cap and the wom
an step aside. The sahibah. is now
with the young master and the doctors.
She is not of this world, sahib, but of
another.”
“And Miss Desmond? Where is she?'
“She wait in the hall outside his
door. Ranjab have speech with her.
She does not believe Ranjab. She look
Into his eye and his eye is not honest
—she see it all. She say the young
master shoot himself and—”
"I shall tell her the truth, Ranjab,
said Brood stolidly. “She must know
she and her mother. Tonight I shall
see them, but not now.- Suicide! Poor,
poor Lydia!”
“Miss Lydia say she blame herself
for everything. She is a coward, she
say, and Ranjab he understand. She
came yesterday and went away. Ran
jab tell her the sahib no can see her.”
“Yesterday! I know. She came to
plead with me. I know,” groaned
Brood, bitterly.
“She will not speak her thoughts-to
tho world, sahib,” asserted Ranjab,
■“Thy servant, have spoken his words
and she will not deny him. It is for
the young master’s sake. But she say
she know he shoot himself because
he no can bear the disgrace—”
“Enough, Ranjab,” interrupted the
master. “Tonight I shall tell her every
thing. Go now and fetch me the latest
•word.’*
The Hindu remained motionless just
Inside the door. His eyes were closed
“Ranjab talk to the windB, sahtl
The/ winds speak to him. The young
master is alive. The great doctor he
search for the bullet. It is bad. But
the sahibah stand between him and
death. She hold hack death. She
laugh at death: She say it no can be,
Ranjab know her how. Here in this
room he see the two woman in her,
and he no more will be blind. She
stand there before Ranjab, who would
kill and out of the air came a new
spirit to shield her. Her eyes are the
eyes of another who does not live In
the flesh, nnd Ranjab bends tho knee.
iHe see the Inside. It is not black. It
ils full of light—a great big light, salilb.
‘ . Thy servant would kill his master's
wife—but, Allah defend! He cannot
kill the wife who is already -dead. His
master’s wlveB stand before him—two
:not one—and his hand is stop.”
Brood was regarding him through
wide-open, incredulous eyes. “You—
you saw it too?” he gasped.
“The serpent is deadly. Many time
IRanjab have take the poison from its
‘fangs and it becomes his slave. He
Would have take the poison from the
serpent In his master’s house, but the
serpent change before his eye and he
become the slave. She speak to him
on the voice of the wind and ho obey.
It is the law. Kismet! His master
have of wives two. Two, sahib—tho
living and the dead. They speak with
Ranjab today and he obey.”
There was dead silence'in the room
for many minutes after the remarkable
utterances of the mystic. The two
men, master and man, looked into each
other's eyes and spoke no more, yet
something passed between them.
“The sahibah has sent Roberts for a
priest,” said the Hindu at last.
“A priest? But I am not a Catholic
—nor Frederic.”
“Madam is. The servants are say
ing that the priest will be hero too
late. They are wondering why you
have not already killed me, sahib."
“Killed you too?” '
- “They are now saying that the last
stroke of the gong, sahib, was the
death sentence for Ranjab. It called
me here to be slain by you. I have
told them all that I tired the—”
“Go down at once, my friend,” said
Brood, laying his hand, on the man’s
shoulder. “Let them see that I do not
blame you, even though we permit
them to believe this lie of ours. Go,
my friend!”
The man bent his. head and turned
away. Near the door he stopped stock
still and listened intently.
“The sahibah comes.”
“Ay, she said she v ould come to me
here,” said Brood, and his jaw hard
ened. “Hodder sent for me, Ranjab, an
hour ago, but—he was conscious then.
His eyes were open. I—I could not
look into them. There would have
been hatred in them—hatred for me
and I—-I could not go. I was a coward,
Yes, a coward after all. She would
have been there to watch me as
cringed. I was afraid of what I might
do to her then.”
He is not conscious now, sahib,”
said the Hindu slowly.
Still,” said the other, compressing
his -lips, “I am afraid—I am afraid.
God, Ranjab, you do not know what it
meanB to be a coward! You—”
“And yet, sahib,, you. are brave
Chough to Stand on the spot where he
fell—where his blood flowed—and that
is not what a coward would do.”
The door opened and closed swiftly
and he was gone. Brood allowed hlB
dull, wondering gaze to sink to his
feet. He was Standing on the spot
where Frederic had fallen. There was
no blood there now. The rug had been
removed and before his own eyes, the
swift-moving Hindu had washed the
floor and table and put the room in or
der. All this’ seemed ages ago. Since
swiftly to tho table. In another in
stant the work of many months would
have boon torn to bits of waste paper.
But his hand was stayed. Someone
had Btopped outside his door. He could
not hear a sound and yet he know that
a hand was on the heavy latch. He sud
denly recalled- his remark to the old
men. He would hove to write the final
chapter after all.
He waited. Ho knew that she w.ib
out there, collecting all of her strength
tor the coming interview. She was
fortifying herself agnlnBt tho crisiB
that was so near at hand.' To his own
surprise and dUtresa of mind, he found
himself trembling and suddenly de
prived of the fierce energy that he had
stored up for the encounter. He won
dered whether ho would command tho
situation after all, notwithstanding his
righteous charge against her. She had
wantonly sought to entice Frederic—
she had planned to dishonor her hus
band—she had proved herself unwhole
some and false and her heart was evil!
And yet ho wondered whether ho
would be able to stand his ground
So far sho had ruled. At the outset
he hud attempted to assert his au
thority as the master of the house in
this trying, heart-breaking hour, and
she had calmly waved him aside. His
flrst thought had been to take his
proper place at the bedside of his vic
tim and there to remain until the end,
but she had said: “You are not to go
in. You have done enough for one day
If he must die, let it be in peace and
not "in fear. You are not to go lii,”
and he had crept away to hide! He re
membered her words later on when
Hodder sent for him to come down.
“Not in fear,” she had said.
On the edge of the table, where it
had reposed since Doctor Hodder
dropped It there, was the small photo
graph of Matilde. He had not touched
It, but he had bent over it for many
minutes at a time, studying the sweet,
never-to-be-forgotten, and yet curiously
unfamiliar features of that long-ago
loved one. He looked at it now aB-lie
waited for the door to open, and his
thoughts leaped back to the last
glimpse he had ever had of that ador
able face. Then it was white with de
spair and misery—here It looked up at
him with smiling eyes and the languor
of unbroken tranquillity.'
He clenched his strong, lean hands
’to keep them from shaking. A new
wonder filled him as -he allowed his
eyes to measure the distance to the
floor and to sweep the strong, powerful
frame that trembled and was cold. He
was a giant in strength and yet he
trembled at the approach of this slen
der, frail creature who paused at hlB
gates to gather courage for the attack!
He was sorely afraid and he could not
hoar? Ho does not know. I Bhall not
let him die.”
“One moment, if you please,” said
her husband coldly. “You may spare
mo the theatrics. Moreover, wo will
not discuss Frederic. What we havo
to say to each other has little to do
with that poor wretch downstairs. This
is your hour of reckoning, not his.
Boar that—”
“You are. very much mistaken,” sho
Interrupted, her gnzo growing more
fixed than before. “He is a part of our
reckoning. He is the one groat char
acter in this miserable, unlooked-for
tragedy. Will you be so kind as to
draw those curtains? And do mo the
honor to allow mo to sit in your pres
ence.” There was inflnito scorn in her
voice. “I am very tired. I havo not
boen Idle. Every minute of my waking
hours belongs to your son, James
Brood—but I owe this half-hour to you,
You shall know the truth about me, as
I know it about you. I did not count
on this hour ever being a part of my
life, but it has to be, and I shall face
it without weeping over what might
have been. Will you draw tho cur-
taius?”
He hesitated a moment and then
jerked the curtains together, shutting
out the pitiless glare.
“Will you be seated—there?” he
said quietly, pointing to a chair at the
end of the table.
She switched on the light In the big
lamp but Instead of taking the chnir
indicated, sank into one on the oppo-
understand Ills fear, With one of his
sinewy hands he could crush the life
out of her slim, white throat—and yet
he was afraid of her—physically afraid
of her.
Suddenly he realized that..the.room
was quite dark. He dashed to the win
dow and .threw aside the broad, thick
curtains. A stream of afternoon sun
shine rushed into the room. He would
have light this time; he would not be
deceived by the darkness, as he had
been once beforq. This time he would
see her face plainly. There should be
no sickening illusion. He straightened
his tall figure and waited for the door
to open.
CHAPTER XX.
Brood Allowed His Dull, Wondering
Gaze to Sink to His Feet.
that time he had bared his soul to the
smirking Buddha and, receiving no
consolation from the smug image, had
violently cursed the thing. Since then
he had waited—he had waited, for
many things to happen. He knew all
that took place below stairs. He knew
when Lydia came and he denied him
self to her. The, coming of the police-,
the nurses and the anesthetician, and
later on, Mrs. John Desmond and the
reporters—all this he had known, for
he had listened at a crack in the open
door. Arid he had heard his wife’s
calm, authoritative voice in the hall be
low, giving directions. Now for the
first time he looked about him and felt
himself attended by ghosts. In that
instant he came to hate this once-lovecl
room, this cherished retreat, and all
that it contained. He would never set
his foot inside of its four walls again.
It was filled with ghosts!
On the corner of the table lay a
great heap of manuscript—the story of
his life up', to the escapd from Lhasa!
The sheets of paper had been scat
tered over the floor by the ruthless
hand of the surgeon, but now they
were back in perfect order, replaced
by another hand. He thought of the
final chapter, that would have to be
written if he went on with, the journal.
It would have to be written, for it was
the true story of-bis life. He strode
A Sister's Story.
If she hesitated outside the room to
summon the courage to face the man
who would demand so much of her,
there was nothing in her manner now
to indicate that such had been the
case. She approached him without a
symptom of nervousness or irresolu
tion. Her dark eyes met his without
wavering and there was purpose in
them.
She devoted a single glance of sur
prise to the uncurtained window on en
tering the door and an instant later
swutlnlzed the floor with unmistakable
interest as if expecting to find some
thing there to account for his motive
in admitting the glare of light—some
thing to confound and accuse her. But
there was no fear or apprehensiveness
iri the look. She was not afraid.
. Brood remained standing, a little be-:
yond the broad ray of light, expecting
her to advance jnto its full, revealing
glare. She stopped, however, ■ in the
shadow-opposite. It was he who moved'
forward into the light, and there was a
deep searching look in his eyes. In an
instant it was gone; he had satisfied
himself.. The curious experience of the
morning had been a phantasm, an il
lusion, a mockery. There was noth
ing in this woman’s smoldering eyes
to suggest the soft, luminous loveli
ness of Matllde’s. He drew a long,
deep breath of relief.
She had put on a rather plain white
blouse, open at. the neck. The cuffs
were rolled up nearly to the elbows,
evidence that she had been using her
hands in some active employment and
had either forgotten or neglected to re
store the sleeves to their proper posi
tion. A chic black walking-skirt lent
to her trim, erect figure a suggestion
of girlishness.
Her arms hung straight down at her
sides, limply It would have seemed at
first glance, but in reality they were
rigid.’
”1 have come, as I paid I would,” she
said, after a long, tense silence. Her
voice was low, huskier than ever, but
without a tremor of excitement, “You
did not say you would wait for me
here, but I Knew you would do so. The
hour of reckoning has come. We
must pay, both of us, I am not fright
ened by your silence, James, nor am
afraid of what you may say or do
First of all, it is expected that Frederic
will die.'Doctor Hodder has proclaimed
it. He is a great surgeon. H e ought
to know..But he.doesn’t know—do you
Do You Remember When You First
Saw Me, James Brood?”
site side of the table, with the mellow
light full upon her lovely, serious face
‘‘Sit thero," she said, signifying the
chair he had requested her to take.
"Please sit down,” she went on Impa
tiently, as he continued- to-regard her
forbiddingly , from his position near the
window.
“I shall be better able to say what I
have to say standing,’-’ he said signifi
cantly.
"Do you expect me to plead with you
for forgiveness?" she inquired, with an
unmistakable look of surprise.
“You may save yourself the humilia
tion of such—”
"But you are very-gravely mistaken,”
she Interrupted. “I shall ask nothing
if you."
“Then we need not prolong the—"
“I have come to explain, not to
plead,” she went on resolutely. "I want
to tell you why I married you. You
will not find it a pleasant story, nor
will you be proud of your conquest. It
will not be necessary for you to turn
me out of your house. I entered it
with the determination to leave it in
my own good time. I think you would
better sit down.”
He looked at her fixedly for a mo
ment, as if striving to materialize a
thought that lay somewhere in the
back of hl's mind. He was vaguely
conscious of an impression that he
could unravel all this seeming mystery
without a suggestion from her if given
the time to concentrate his mind on
the vague, hazy suggestion that tor
mented his memory.
He sat down opposite her, and rest
ed his arm's on the table. The lines
about his mouth were rigid,- uncompro
mislng, but there was a look of wonder
in his eyes.
She leaned forward 1n her chair, the
better to watch the changing expres
sion in his eyes as she progressed with
her, story. Her hands were clenched
tightly under the table’s edge.
“You are looking into my eyes—as
'you have looked a hundred times,” she
said after a moment. “There Is some
thing in them that has puzzled you
since the nigbt when you looked into
them across that great ballroom in
London. You have always felt that
they were hot new to you, that you
have had them constantly in front of
you for ages. Do you remember when
you first saw me, James Brood?”
He stared, and his eyes widened,
never saw you in my life until that
night in London, I—”
“Look closely. Isn’t there something
more than doubt in your mind as you
look into them now?’’
"I confess that I have always been
puzzled by—by something I cannot un
derstand in— But all this leads to
nothing," he broke off harshly. “We
are not here to mystify each other but
to—”
"To explain mysteries, that’s it, of
course. You are looking. What do
you see? Are you not sure that you
looked inti) - my eyes long, long ago ?
A FlintiA nni. . ,.nta ti'hori mV Viilf.fi
the unbsiievablo had happened. .1 saw
loniething that—" He stopped Bhort,
tis Ups parted.
She waved her hand in ’the direction
of .the Huddlin.- "Have you never peti
tioned your.too solid friend ovor there
to unravel tho mystery for you? In
the quiet of cortain lonely, speculative
hours have you not wondered where
you had Been me before—16ng, long'
bofore the night in London? Wall the
years that you have boon trying to
convince yourself that Frederlo is not
your son, has there not boon tho vision
of-” -
"What are you saying to me? Aro
you trying to tell me that you aro Ma
lt not Matilde, then who am I,
pray?" she demauded.
He sank back, frowning. "It cannot
be possible. I would know her a thou
sand years from now. You cannot
trick me into ’believing— But, in
God’s name, who are yoit?" He leaned
forward again, clutching tlA edgo of
tho table. "By , heaven, I sometimes
think you aro a ghost come to'lmunt
mo, to torturo mo. What trick, What
magic Is behind all this? Has hor
soul, hor spirit, hor actual being found
n lodging place In you, and have you
been sent to curse me tor—’!
She rose half-way out of her chair,
lenning farther across the table. “Yob,
James Brood, I represent the spirit of
/Matilde Valeska, If you will have it so.
Not .sent, to cureo you, but to lovo you.
That’s'the pity of it all. 1 svt-oar to
you that It is the spirit of Matilde that
urges mo to love you and to spare you
now. It is the spirit of Matilde that
stands between her son and death. But
It Is not Matilde. who confronts- you
here and now, you may be sure of that.
Mattlde loved you. She loves you now,
even in her grave. You will never 'bo
able ■ to escape from that wonderful
love of hers. If thero have been times
—and heaven knows there were many,
I know—when I appeared to lovo you
for myself, I swear to you that I was
moved by the spirit Qf Matilde. I—I
am as much mystified, as greatly puz
zled ns yourself. I came here to hate
you, attd I have loved you—yes, there
were moments when I actually loved
you.”
Her voice died away Into a whisper.
For many seconds thriy sat looking
into' each other’B eyes, neither pos-
ses'slng the poWer to break the strange
spell of silence that had fallen upon
them.
“No; it is riot Matilde'who confronts
you- now, but one wlio would not spaYe
you as she did up to the hour of her
death. You aro quite safe from ghosts
from this hour on, my friend. You
will - never. seo Matilde. again, though
you look Into my eyes.till the end of
time. Frederlo may see, may feel the
spirit of his mother, but you—ah, noj'
You have seen the last of her. Her
blood is in my veins,, her wrongs are in
my heart. It was she with .whom you
foil iri lovo and It was sho you married
six months ago, but now the curtain is
lifted. Don’t you know me now,-James?
Can your memory carry you bpek
tweriiy-thrpe years arid deliver you
from • doubt and perplexity ? Look
closely, I say. I was six -years 'old
thon and—’’
Brood was glaring at her as one
stupefied. Suddenly be . cried out in a
loud voice:' “Heaven help me, you
are—you aro tho little sister? Tho
little Thereso?"
She was standing now, leaning far
over the table, for lie had shrunk down
into his clmlri
"Tho little Therose, yes! Now do
you begin to see? Now do you begin
to realize what I came here to do? Now
do you know why I married you? Isn’t
it . clear to you?- Well, I have tried
to do air those things so that I might
break your heart as you broke hers. I
came to make you pay!” She was
speaking rapidly, excitedly now. Her
voice was high-pitched and unnatural.
Her eyes seemed to ^ie driving him
deeper arid deeper into the chair, forc
ing him down as though with a giant’s
hand. “The little,, timid, heart-broken
Thereso who would not speak to you,
nor kiss you, nor say good-by to you
when you took her darling sister away
from the Bristol in the Kartnerring
more than twenty years ago. Ah, how
I loved' her—how I loved her! Arid
how I hated you for taking her away
from m.e. Shall I ever forget that wed
ding night? Shall- I ever -forget the
grief, the loneliness, the hatred that
dwelt in my poor little heart that
night? Everyone was happy—the
whole world was happy—but was I?
I was crushed with grief. You were
taking her away aerOBS the awful sea
—and you were to make hor happy, so
they said—ai—e, so said my beloved,
joyous sister. You stood before the
altar in St. Stephen’s with her and
promised—promised—promised every
thing. I heard you. I sat .With my,
mother and turned to ice, but I hoard
you. All Vienna, all Budapest said that
you promised nauglit but Happiness to
each other. . She was twenty-one. She
was lovely—ah, far lovollor than that
wretched photograph lying there lit
front of you.-- It was made when she
was eighteen. She did not write those
words on the back of tho card. I wrote
them—not more than a month ago, be
fore I gave it to Frederic. To' this
house she came twenty-three years
ago. You brought, her: here, the happi
est girl In all the world. Ho,w did you
send her away? How?" •
He stirred in the chair. A’spasm of
pain crossed his face. “And I was tho
happiest man in all the world,” he said
hoarsely. "You are forgetting one
thing, Therese.'’ He fell' iri to the way
of calling' her Theresa as it he had
known iter by no other name. “Yqur
sister was not content to preserve the
happiness that—•’’
“Stop!” she commanded. “You are
not to speak evil Of her now'. You will
Are there riot moments when my voice
is familiar to you, "hen it speaks to
you out-of—"
. He sat up, rigid as a block of stone, never think evil of her after what I am
"Yes, by heaven. I have felt It all I about to-tell you. You .wiR-curse:your-
alorig. Today I was convinced that | self. Somehow. I am glad that -my
plans havo gouo awry. It gives me the
opportunity to see you curse yourself."
"Hor BlBtor!" uttetod the man unbe
lievingly. "I havo married tho child
Thereso. I linvo hold hor sister In my.
arms all those .months and nover knew. ,
lt ls afirenm. I—"
"Ah, but you liavo felt even though
—” '■ ’ ■ ..-'.; .
I-lo struck tho table violently with
his (1st. His eyes woro..hlazlng,. “\Vhnt
manner of woman aro you? What
wore you planning to do to tlmt un- .
happy boy—her boh? Aro you a liond
to—"
"In good timo, James,-You will know
what manner of woman I nm," sho In
terrupted quietly. Sinking back In tho
chair sho rosumed tho broken strain,
all tho time watching him through
half-closed eyes. “Sho died ton years
ago. Hor boy was twelve years old. - •
She never saw him after the night you
turned her aWny from this houso. On
her doatlibod, ns sho was-releasing hor
pure, .undeflled soul to God’s keeping,
she repeated to tlio priest who wont
through tho unnecessary form of ab
solving hor—sho ropeated hor solemn
declaration that sho lmd novor wronged
you by thought or deed. I hnd always
believed lior, the holy priest bellevod.
her, God . believed her. You would
have believed her, too, Jamos Brood.
She was a good woman. Do you hear?
And you put a curse upon, hor and
drove hor out into the night. That
was not all. You persoouted her to tho
end of her unhappy life/ You did that
to my sister!"
And yet you married me," ho mut
tered thickly.
"Not because I loved you—oh, not
She loved you to the day of hor death,-
after all the mlsory and suffering you
had heaped upon her. No woman oyer
endured tho anguish that she suffered' -
throughout thoso hungry years. You
kept her child from her. You denied
him to her, oven though you deriiod
h|m to 'yourBelf. Why did you keep
him from hor? Sho waB his mother.
Sho had borne him, he was all hers.
But no! It wns your rovongo to de
prive her of the child she lmd brought •
Into tho world. You workod deliberate
ly in this plan to crush what little
there was left lit life for her. You kept
him with you, though you branded him
with a name I cannot uttor; you guard
ed him as if he were your most
precious possession arid not a curse to'
your pride; you did this because you
know that you could drive the barb
more dooply into hor tortured heart.
You allowed her to die, after years of
pleading; after years of-vain endeavor,
without ono gllmpso of her boy, with
out ever having heard the word mother
on his Ups. That is what you'did to
my sister. For twelve long years you
gloated over her misery. Oh, God,
man, how I hated you when I married
you!" She paused breathless;
' "You are creating ari excuse for your
devilish conduct," ho exclaimed harsh*
ly. "You nre like Matilde, false to tho
core. You married me for the luxury I
could provide; notwithstanding tho
urse:r-had tfUt ’upori your sister. I
!on’t believe a word- of-what you aro
saying to—”
'Don't you believe that I am her sla
ter?"
You—yes, by heaven; I must believe
that. Why have I been'so blind? Yo.u
aro tho llttlo TliCrese, and you hated
me In those other days. I remember
well the—”
"A child’s despairing hatred because
you were taking, away the being sho
loved best of all. Will you believe mo
when I say that my hatred did not en
dure for long? When her happy, joy- .
ous letters came back lo us filled with
accounts of your goodness, your devo
tion, I—I allowed my hatred to die. I
forgot that you had robbed me. I came
to look upon you as tho fairy prince,
after all. It was not until she carne.all
the way across the ocean and began’to
die before our eyes—she was years in
dying—It was not-until then that I be
gan to lmto you with a real, undying
hatred.”, ; ' l( ,: ■ ' >v-, v
“And yot you gave yourself to me,"
he cried, “You put yourself in her
place. In heaven’s name, what was.to.
be gained by such an act as that?”
VI wanted to take Matilda's boy away
from you,” she hurried on, and,for the
first time lier eyes began to' waver.
“The idea suggested Itself to me -the
night I mot.you at the comtesse’s din
ner. It was a wonderful: a tremendous
thought tlmt entered my brain- . At
flrst my real self revolted, but as time
went on the idea became an obsession.
I married you, James Brood, for tha
sole purpose of hurting you in tha
worst possible way; by having Mn^
tilde’s son striko you where the pain
would be tho greatest. Ah, you ara
thinking that I would have permitted
inysolf to havo become his mistress,
but you are mistaken. I am not that
bad. . I would not have damned his
soul In that way. I would not have
betrayed my sister la that way. Far
more subtle was my design. I confess
tlmt It was my plan to make him fall ia
love with me and In the end to run
away with him, leaving you to think
that tho very worst had happened. But
it would not havo been, as you think.
Ho would- havo boen protected, my
friend, amply protected. I-Ie—"
“But you would have wrecked him— j
don’t you see that you would have
wrecked tho life you sought to protect?
How utterly blind and unfeeling you
wero. You say that he was my sou
and Matilda's, honestly born. What
was your object, may I Inquire, In.
striking me at such cost to him? You
would, liavo , made, a scoundrel of him ,
for the sake of a personal vengeanoa.
Are you forgetting that he regarded
himself as my son?" ; ' ?
(TO. BE CONTINtlEP,),,/
Their. Use.
“Why do you’ advocate blanket
street-paving bills?".
. “To cover the bed3 of the streets,
pt course."