Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, May 22, 1897, Page 6

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5 e PART IV. CHAPTER VI-—(Continued.) “Listen to me, Bertie. You remem- ber the three letters that I wrote be- fore we left London, Eva tells me that they were kept back by their ser- vant, William. Do you know any- thing about it?” Bertie w lent, but his eyes were fixed on Frank with dull, anxious en- treaty. “No one knew of the existence of these fetters but you. Have you any suspl- cion why it should be to William's in- terest to suppress them, then?” “No. How should I?’ said Bertie, y above his breath, ak out!” cried West- hove, quivering in every muscle. “You must know something about it, that is quite clear. You mu Speak out!” All thought of self-defense melted away under the vehemence of Frank's tone. Bertie hardly had any curiosity evn to know what had occurrred to be- tray William's complicity; and he felt that it would be easiest now to give himself up comple without re- serve, since that which he had’ been dreading weeks had come upon h a and in his of the hor- pity of his “You did what “Who bribed William not to deliver the letters.” yesthove lokeod at him in dumb as- ‘kness clouded his si rthing was in a whirl; he did not . did not understand, forgetting t the truth had already flashed ss his brain. You!’ he gasped. “My God! but wh Van Maeren got up; he burst into use—because—I don’t know. I oll you. It is too vile.” e had seized him by the he shook him and said, in a cannot Westho ‘You villain, you will not tell me ? You will not tell me? Or must uke it out of your body? Why? Tell me this instant! sobbed Van ringing his white hands. “Tell me—out with it!” “Be . stay with you, and because if you m 1 I should I was so fond of you, and Speak out. You were fond of me— 1 then——” And you w gave me ev should have re so kind t» me. You thing. I foresaw that L to work for my living again, and I was so well off where 1 ‘rank, nk, listen to me; hear ve to tell before you say anything, before you are angry., Let me explain; do not condemn me until you know. Oh, yes, it was base of to do what I did; but let me say a word; do not be angry, Frank, until know everything. F k, try to see me as L am. I amas God made me, and I can- not help it; I would have been differ- ent if I could—and I only did what I could not help doing. Indeed, I could not help it; was driven to it by a pow- er outside of me. I was so weak, so tired; I could rest with you; ana, though you may not believe it, I loved you, I worshiped you. And you want- ed to turn me out and make me work, Then it —then I did it. Hear me, rank; let me tell you all. I must tell you all. I made Eva believe that you did not really love her; I made her doubt you, so that everything was broken off between you. And the let- ters, I stopped them. lt was all my doing, Frank—all, all; and I hated myself while I did it, because I was not different from what Lam. But Z could not help tt. I was made so. ~ - . And you did not understand me. I am such a strange mixture that you cannot understand. But try to understand me and you will, Frank; and then you will forgive me; perhaps yop will even forgive me. Oh! believe me. I besesch you; I am not wholly selfish. I love you with all my soul, so s one man hardly ever loves an- ', because you were so good to me. I can prove it to you; did I not stick by you when you had lost all your mon in America? If I had been selfish, should I not have left rou then? But I stayed with you, I ked with you, and we shared everything and were happ: Oh! why did not things re- main they were? Now you have met her, and now—” “Have you done with words?” roared ¥rank. “So you did this; you wrecked all that life held for me! God in heay- en! is it possible? No; you are sight; I do not understand you!’ He ended with a venomous laugh, his face crim- son and his eyes starting. with rage. Bertie had dropped, crouching, in a theap on the ground, and sobbed «oud, “Oh, but try to understand me,” he entreated. “Try to see a fellow crea- ture as he is, in all his comfortless na- kedness, with no conventional wrap- pings. My God! I swear to you that 1 wish I was different. But how can L help being what I am? I was born ‘without any option of my own; I was endowed with a brain, and I must think; and I think otherwise than I gladly would think, and I have been tossed through life like a ball—like a ball. What could I do, thus tossed, but try to keep my head up? Strength of will, strength of mind? I do not ‘know whether you have any; but IL thave never, never felt such a thing. ‘When I do a thing it is because I must, because I can do no otherwise; for, though I may have the wish to act differently, the strength and energy are not there! Believe me, I edspise myself; believe that, Frank, and try. to understand and to forgive.” “Words, words! You are raving,” growled Frank. “I do not know what OTSTEPS OF FATE. By LOUIS COUPERUS. —_—_—_—_—~_7~= TRANSLATED FROM THE DUTCH. SRNR IO LIL GOERS all your talk means. I can under- stand nothing at this moment; and would not. All I understand is that you have ruined me, and that you have destroyed my whole life’s joy, and that you are a low scoundrel, who bribed a servant to stop my letters, out of gross, vile, unfathomable selfishness. Bribed him? Tell me, rascal, wretch, coward —bribed him! With what, in Heaven's name? Tell me with what you bribed him.” “Wi th—with—’. but Van_ Maeren hesitated in abject fear, for Westhove had collared him by the waistcoat as he grovelled on the floor, and shook him again and again. “By thunder, you villain, you bribed him with my money—with my money! ‘ell me—speak, or I'll kick it out of you!” 2 “Yes.” “With my money?” “Yes, yes, yes.” Frank flung him down w a yell of contempt, of loathing of such a thing as he. But Van Maeren was experiencing a reaction from his self-abasement. The world was so stupid, men were stupid, Frank was stupid. He did not understand that a man should be such as he, Bertie, w he could not under- stand; he bellowed out, in his brutal rage, like some wild beast, without He, himself, he eny. He sprang up with one leap! “Yes, if you will have it. Yes, yes, yes,” he hissed it hard. “If you don’t understand, if you are too idiotic to take it in—Yes, I say. Yes, yes, yes. I bribed him with your money, that you were so kind as to give me the v last day we were leaving London. You gave me a hundred pounds to pay Will- iam!—do you remember? ‘To pay V iam! You do not understand? Well— you don’t understand! You are a stu- pid brute, without brains. Ay, and I envy you for having none. There was had | the dreadful thing, to make sure—and even if I could, at this moment I! a time when I had none; and do you; know how I came by them? Why, through you. There was a time when I toiled and worked, and never thought and never cared. I ate all I earned, aud when I earned nothing I went hun- gry. And was happy! It was you— you who fed me on dainties, and gave me wine to drink; and it was you who clothed me, so that I had not to work, but had nothing to do but to think, think, in my contemptible idleness, all day long. And now I only wish I could eck my skull open and throw my brains into your face for having made me what I am, so finikin and full of ideas! You don’t understand? ‘Then. perh you wil Inot understand that at this moment I feél no gratitude for you for all that you have done for hat I hate you for it all, that 1 despise you, and that you have made my life more infinitely wretched than I have made yous! Do you under- stand that much, at. any rate? hat I despise you and hate you, hate you, hate you?” ie had entrenched himself behind a table, sputtering cut this volley of words in a paroxysm of nervous excite- ment; he felt as though every fiber of his frame was ready to erack like an oversirained cord. He had got behind the table because Westhove was stand- ing before him, at the other side row; his eyes starlingly white and bloodshot in his purple face ;his nestrils dilated; his shoulders up, his fists clenched, ready, as it seemed, to spring upon him. Westhove was waiting, as it ap- peared, till Van Maeren had spit out in his face all the foul words he could find. “Yes, I hate you!” Bertie repeated, “I hate you!” He could find nothing else to say. Then Frank let himself go With a bellow like a wild beast, a sound that had nothing human in it, he sprang over the table, which tilte don its side, and came down with all the weight of his impetus on ‘Bertie, who fell under him like a reed. He seized his foe by the throat, dragged him over the legs of the table, into the middle of the room, dropped him with a crack on the floor, and fell upon him with his bony, square knee on Bertie’s chest, and his left hand holding his neck like a vise. And a hard, dry feeling, like a thirst heer brutality, rose to Westhove’s roat; with a dreadful smile on his lips he swallowed two or three times, dishly glad that he had him in his power, in the clutch of his left hand, under his knee. And he doubled - his right fist and raised it like a hammer, with a tigerish roar. “There, there, there,” he growled; and each time a sledge-hammer blow fell on Bertie. “There, there, there”— on his nose, his eyes, his mouth, his forehead—and_ the blows resounded dully en his skull, as if on metal. A red mist clouded Westhoye’s sight; ev- erything was red—purple, scarlet, ver- milion. A blood-stained medley cir- eled round him like whirling wheels, and through that erimson halo a dis- torted face grinned at him under the pounding of his fist. The corners of the room.swam in red, as if they were full of tangible red terror, whirling, whirling around him—a purple dizzi- ‘ess, a scarlet madness, a nightmare, bathed in blood; . . . and his blows fell fast and steadily—‘“there, there, there!” and his left hand closed tightly on the throat below that face—— The door flew open, and she, Eva, rushed up to them through the red mist, parting it, dispelling it with the swift actuality of her appearance. “Frank- Frank!” she screamed. “Stop, I entreat you! Stop! You are murdering him!” He let his arm drop and looked at her as in a dream. She tried to drag him back, to get him away from the |. battered body, to which he clung in his fury like a vampire. “Leave him, Frank, I beseech you; let him stand up. Do not kill him. 1 was outside and I was frightened. 1 did not understand, because you were | heart, speaking Dutch. Great heavens! What have you done to him? Look, look! What a state he is in!” Frank had risen to his feet, dazed by that red frenzy; he had to lean on the table. “IT have given him what he deserved —I have thrashed him, and will do it again.” He was on the point of falling on the foe once more, with that devilish grin on his face and that brutal thirst still choking him. “Frank, 20. Frank!” cried Eva, cling- ing to him with both hands. “For God’s sake, be satisfied! Look at him! Oh, look at him!” “Well, then, let him get up,” Frank snarled. “He may get up. Get up, wretch, at once; get up!” He gave him a kick—and a second— and a third—to make him rise. But Van Maerer. did not move. “Great God! only look at him,” said Eva, kneeling down by the body. “Look—don’t you see?’ She turned to Frank, and he as if awaking from his dream of blood, did see now, and saw with horror. There it lay; the legs and | ar as convulsed and writhing; the body | breathless still in the loose, light-hued summer suit; and the face a mask of blue, and green and violet, stained with purplish black, which oozed from ears and nose and mouth, clammy and dark, drop by drop, on the carpet. One eye was a shapeless mass, half pulp and jelly; the other stared out of the oval socket like a large, dull, melan- choly opal. The throat looked as though it had a very broad purple band around it. And as they stood gazing at the features, it seemed that they were swelling to a sickening, un- recognizable deformity. Out of doors the storm of rain had not ceased. There they stood, staring at the horror that lay bleeding and mo- tionless on the ground before them; a leaden silence within, and without the failing torrent, an endless, endless plash. Eva, kneeling by Bertie’s side, and shuddering with terror, had felt his and listened with her ear against the breathless trunk—close to she had got up again quaking, had very softly stepped back from it, her eyes still directed on it, and now stood clinging against Frank, as if she would become one with him in her ag- ony of fear. “Frank,” she gasped. “God have mercy! Frank! He is dead! Let us go—let us, go; let us fly!” “Is he dead?” asked Westhove, dully. His mind was beginning to wake—a faint dawn like murky daybreak. He released himself from her grasp; knelt down, listened, felt, thought vaguely of fetching a doctor, of remedies; and then he added, huskily—certain, in- deed, of what he said, but quite uncer- tain of what he should do: “Yes, he is dead—he is dead. What can I—?” Eva still hung on to him, imploring him to fly, to escape. But his mind was gradually getting clearer, day- light shining in on his bewilderment; he freed himself from her embrace, and tried to go; his hand was already on the door handle, “frank, Frank!” she shrieked, for she saw that he meant to abandon her. “Hush!” he whispered, with a finger on his lips. “Stay here; stay and watch. I will come back.” And he went. She would have fol- lowed him, have clung to him in an agony of terror, but he had already shut the door behind him, and her trembling knees could scarcely carry her. She sat down by the body, shiv- ering miserably. There it was—the swollen, bruised and purple face, sad and sickening, in the diffused after- noon light, which came in obliquely through the curtain of rain. Every breath stuck in her throat; she was dying for air, and longed to open the window, being closer to that than the door. But she dared not; for outside, through the dim, square panes, she saw the tragical sky covered with driv- ing, slate-colored pile of cloud, and the rain falling in a perfect deiuge, and the sea dark and ominous as an imminent threat, the raging foam gleaming through a shroud of pouring water. “Molde, Molde!” she exclaimed, icy- cold with terrible remembrance. “It is the sky of Molde, the fjord of Mol- de! That was where I first felt it. Oh, God! Help, help!” And she fell, senseless, on the floor. PART V. I. Since that day of terror two had elapsed, years of silent end» for them both; each suffering alone. For they were parted; with only the solace of a brief meeting now and then, when she could go and see him where he was spending his two years, the days slowly dragging past, in the pris- on among the sandhills. He had given himself up at once to the police of Scheveningen, as if he were walking in his sleep, and had been taken to the House of Detention. He had stood his trial—it had lasted six weeks—a short time, the lawyer had said to comfort him, because there was no mystery to clear up; the mur- der was proved to a- demonstration, beyond the shadow of a doubt, to be the result of a quarrel. This was evi- dent, also, from the evidence of Miss Rhodes, wha had stated that the crim- inal himself had not at first. under- stood that his friend was dead, for that he had immediately after kicked him two or three times to rouse him, think- ing he was only in a state of co¥apse; and that this had»taken place’ in her presence. ‘The trial was watched with interest by the public; and their sym- pethy was aroused when the purchase of the letters came out through the ev- idence of Sir Archibald and his daugh- ter, confirmed by William, whose pres- ence was secured by diplomatic inter- ference. There were no difficulties; six weeks settled everything. Frank was sentenced to two years’ imprison- merit, and the case was not taken to a higher court. He Lad spent the time, day after day, in’a waking dream of gloomy lu- cidity, with always, always, the sinis- ter vision of that writhing ‘body, and the horror of that dreadful, ‘battered face before his eyes. He had felt it glide over the pages of his book when he tried to read, among the letters he tracéd when he tried to write—what he scarcely knew, fragments of an ac- count of his travels through America and Australia—a melancholy employ- ment and full of pain, since every word reminded him of the murdered man who had béen his constant com- | panion. And when he did nothing, but gazed in dreary reverie out of the window of his cell, there, just below, gray streak, and in fancy he could see ths villa where they had dwelt togeth- er and where he had done the deed; with a glimmer of the sea, a shining gray streok; and in fancy he could smell the briny scent, as in the days when he had spent hour after hour, with his feet on the balustrade—the hours which; as they crept on, though he knew it not, were bringing inevita- ble doom on them both, every moment nearer. So it never left him; it haunt- ed him incessantly. Eva had entreated her father to re- main at the Hague during all this ter- rible time, and Sir Archibald had con- sented, fearing for his daughter's health. Her natural sweet equanimity had given way to a fitful nervousness, which tormented her with hallucina- tions, visions of thunder and of blood. So they had settled in the Van Stolk Park, and all through Frank’s im- prisonment she had been able to see him from time to time, coming home more exhausted from each visit, in de- spair over his melancholy, however she might try to encourage him with hopes for the future, later on, when he should be free. She herself could hope, nay, lived only on hope, control- ling here xcitability under the yoke of patience and of her confidence in some- thing brighter which might come into her life by and by, when Frank was free. A new life! Oh, for a new life! and her spirits danced at the thought— and new happiness! Great God! some happiness! She did not herself under- stand how she could still hope, since she had known so much of life and of men, and since she had lived through that fearful experience; but she would not think of it, and in the distant fut- ure, she saw everything fair and good. Even her hallucinations did not de- stroy her hopefulness; though dreading them, she regarded them as a recur- ring malady of the brain. which would presently depart of itself. She could even smile as she sat dreaming in the pale light of a starlit summer evening, the calendar in her hard. in which she scratched through each day as it died, with a gold pencil-case which she had bought on purpose and used for noth- ing else, wearing it in a bracelet;— struck it out, with a glad, firm stroke, as bringing her nearer to the blissful future. And she would even let the days pass without erasing them sever- ally, that she might have the joy at the end of the week of making six or sev- en strokes, one after another, in a lux- ury of anticipation. il. And now, long as they had been, the days had all stolen by—all, one after another, bayond recall. The past was more and more the past, and would ferever remain so. It would never come back to them, she thought, never nt them with hideous memories. She grew calmer; her nervousness di- minished, and something like peace came upon her in her passionate long- ing for the happy future; for she was going to be happy with Frank. She was now in London with her father, living very quietly; still feeling the past, in spite of her present glad- ness. still conscious of what had been, in all its misery and its horror. Frank, too, was in London, in a poorly-paid place as assistant overseer in some en- gineering works, the only opening he could find by the help of his old con- nections; jumping at it, indeed, in con- sideration of his antecedents, of which he had no cause to be proud. By and by he should get something better, something more suitable to his attain- ments. And he took up his studies again, to refresh his technical knowl- edge, which had grown somewhat rust: Sir Archibald had grown much older, and was crippled by attacks of rheum- atism; but still he sat poring over his heraldic studies. Living in Holland, for his daughter's sake, he had too long been out of his own circle of ac- quaintance and groove of habit; and though he had from time to time, ina fit of childish temper, expressed bis vexation at Eva’s becoming the wife of a murderer, he now agreed to ev- erything, shrinking from the world and troubling himself about nothing; only craving to be left undisturbed in the apathy of his old age. “He knew nothing about it; old men knew noth- ing about such things. The young peo- ple might. please themselves; they al- ways knew best, and must have their own way.” So he grumbled on, ap- parently indifferent, but glad at heart that Eva should marry Frank, since Frank, if he could be violent, was good | at heart; and Eva would be well cared for, and he himself would have some- one to bear him company in his own hovse—yes, yes, a little company. Frank and Eva met but rarely dur- ing the week, for he was busy even in the evenings, but they saw each other regularly on Sundays. And Eva had the whole week in which to think over the Sunday when she had last seen him, and she tried to recall every word that he had said, every look he had given her. On these treasures she lived all the week. She had never loved him so dearly as now when crushing depression weighed on him, which she longed to lighten by the solzce of her love. There was some- thing motherly in her feeling for him, as though his sufferings had made a child of him, needing a tenderer re- gard than of yore. She had loved him then for the mysterious charm, as it seemed to her, of the contrast between his feeble gentleness and his powerful physiqué; and now it was no more than a higher development cf the same charm, since she saw the stal- wart strong man suffering so pitiably under the memory of what he had gone through, and lacking the energy to rise superior to it and begin life ane. But this want of vigor did not discourage her in her hopes for the fut- ure; on the contrary, she loved him for his weakness, while regarding this as singular and incomprehensible in her- self; dreaming over it in her sofitude, or smiling with gladness. For she, as a woman, in spite of her nervous, visionary temperamen*, could resolutely forget the past, bravely go forward-to meet the future, compelling hapjness to come’to her by her sweet patience and elastic constancy. Had not all the woes of the past lain out- side them both? Had not Frank done penace enough for his fit of rage to hold up his head again now? Oh, they would soon have got over it complete- ly; they would insist on being happy, and she would cure him of everything like heart-sickness. ‘Thus she hoped on, a long, long time, refusing at first to acknowledge he grew more melancholy and gloo! sinking into deeper and deeper dejec- tion under his burden. But at last she ey was compelled to see it, could no long- er blind herself. She could not help seeing that he sat speechless while she talekd so hopefully, listened in silence to her cheerful words and bright illu- sions, saying nothing, and sometimes closing his tyes with a sigh which he tried to suppress. She could not de- ceive herself; her sanguine moods aroused in him only an echo of despair. And when one day this was suddenly clear to her, she felt, suddenly, too, that her nervous fears had worn her out; that she was sad and ill; that her courage, her hopes, her illusions were sinking down, deeper and deeper.’ A bitterness as of wormwood rose up in her, tainting everything; she flung her- self on her bed, in her loneliness, heart- broken, in utter anguish, and cursed her life, cursed God, in helpless woe. iit. Then, circumstances occurred which, in spite of all this, led to its being set- tled that they were to be married in quite a short time—in about six weeks. Frank had been helped by some of his old friends to obtain an appointment as engineer in a great Glasgow firm; Eva was to have her mother’s fortune; there were no difficulties in the way. Frank now always spent the whole Sunday at Sir Archibald’s house. He came to lunch, sitting as silent as er, and after lunch they were usually left to themselves. At first the hours flew by, sped by Eva’s day-dreams, though she was still, and in spite of herself, somewhat nervous; they would discuss various matters, end even read together. But then for some time, minute would link itself to minute, while they did nothing but sit side by side on a deep sofa, holding each oth- er’s hands and gazing into vacancy. And a moment came when they could no longer endure that gi dared. The image of Bertie, with his purple, blood-stained face, would rise up between them; their hands parted they were both thinking of the dead. would so overpower her that it seemed as though she must suffocate; then they would throw the windows open and stand for a long, long time to re- fresh themselves in the cool air, look- ing out over the Park in the gathering gloom. She listened in dread to Frank's breath as it came and went. Ay, and she was afraid of him, in spite of her love. After all, he had committed murder; he could do such things in his rage! Oh! if, in a fit of passion, she, too—. But she would de- spair she would cling to life. Had she not herself felt strong enough to kill? No, no. Not she, surely. She was too timid. And, besides, she loved him so dearly; she adored him, and soon she would soon be his wife! Still she was afraid. The Sundays were no longer days so sweet as to leave a treasure of mem- ory in which she could live through the week. On the contrary, Eva now dreaded Sund ed it with terror. . . F ‘Sareoes Here it was s Fra she heard hi ill she was afraid, and still she loved him. ing, had in hand, and silent. still early in the afternoon, but a storm threatened, and the gray gloom peered in through the thick lace cur- tains. Eva, depressed by the h weather, thirsting for some comfort, suddenly, in spite of her fears, threw herself on Frank’s breast. “I can no longer endure this weath- er!” she wailed, almost moaning. “This dark, cloudy weather always op presses me of late. I want to go to Italy, Frank; to the sun, the sun!” He pressed her to him, but did not k. She began to weep softly. b something, Frank,” she sobbed. “Yes; I do not like this heavy sky,” he said, dully. Again there was silence; she tried to control herself, clinging closely to him, Then she went on: “L cannot bear up against it; I be- lieve since that rainy day which over- took us in Molde, so long ago now— five years and more—you remember— when we had met three or four times, a few days before at Dronthjem?” She smiled and kissed his hand, remem- bering her youth; she was old now. “You recollect we got to the hotel drenched. I believe I have been ill ever since that day; that I took a bad cold, which settled in me, though at first I did not feel it and said nothing about it, but which has been under- mining me ever since, all this long time——” He made no reply; he, too, had a ically painful at Molde; but he could no longer remember what. But she suddenly burst into a violent fit of weeping. “Oh! Frank, speak! Say something,” she besought him, in despair at his silence, feeling her terror grow greater in the stillness, and her heart throb- bing wildly in spite of herself. He passed his hand over his fore- head, trying to collect his thoughts. Then he slowly replied: “Yes, Eva—for I have something to say to you. Just this very day.” “What is that?’ she asked, looking up through her tears, in surprise at his strange tone. I want to speak to you very serious- ly, Eva. Will you listen?” “Yes.” “I want to ask you something—to ask if you would not rather be free. To ask if you would not be glad that I should release you?” She did not immediately understand him, and sat gazing at him, open- moawhed. “Why?” she said, at length, shudder- ing, terrified lest he should under- stand something of what was tortur- ing her soul, “Because it would be so much better for you, my child,” he said, gently. “I have no right to fetter your life to mine. I am wrecked—an old man— and you are young.” She clung to him closely. 5 “No, I am old, too,” said she, with a smile, “and I will not have it. I will be true to you. I will always comfort you when you are out of heart. And so, together, we will both grow young again, and both be happy.” “You are a dear, good girl,” he whispered, in a husky, trembling voice. “I do not deserve that you should be so good to me. But, seri- ously, Eva, think it over once more. p—no longer | As it grew darker, intolerable misery | fend herself; with the strength of de- | They were sitting thus one even- | It was | yague recoilection of something trag- | }yours more 4 : done already. So, > s ahr yur ee ie e aeBut 5% will not have ft!" she desperately. “J will not. 1 sere you ‘sho! j back m, - Miple took her hands caressingly | own, and looked in her face time, with a ad ste under ie. colored monetcause—Decavise you are i , darling.” Se ee through her ied frame, like an electric shock; bbs she looked at him, and wildly pro ; his ea: 1s not true, Frank;-I ewear it 1s not true! Great God! Why do you think that? What lave I done oe make you think it? Believe ne _ Frank; take my word. I swear oe — by all that is holy; there. I ances = you it is not true. Tam not afraid are ape of he said, calmly. “and I under- it; it must be so. ‘And yet I as ld have no cause to head in your id, white hands, You should do ould, and I you, for I er again. ould feel and lie es, Eva, you me, stand sure you, you shou! be; I would lay my hands; your pretty. col and sleep like a child. with me whatever you Wi would never be angry with could never be so again, nev’ I would lie at your feet; I w' your feet on me, on my breast, | So still—so calm and blest!—" He had fallen on his knees before her, with his head in her lap, om her hands. m “Well, then,” she said, gently. “it | that is the case, why should I ever be | afraid of you, since you promise me PY this? And why do you talk of releas- ing me from my word?” 3 | “Because I cannot bear to live on, | seeing you so unhappy; because you ae ‘are unhappy with me, as I can see; ‘and because you will be even more So when we are together later—always. She quivered in every fiber. A strange lucidity came over her. She saw all that had happened as if mir- | rored in crystal. i “Hear me, Frank,” she said, in @ lelear, bright voice. “Remain where | you are and listen to me; listen well. I mean to be true to you, and we shall ibe happy. I feel that we shall. What has occurred that we shquld always ‘be miserable? Nothing. I repeat it— nothing. Do not let us spoil our own ‘lives. I doubted you once; you have forgiven me. That is all at an end. | You discovered that Bertie was & scoundrel, and you killed him. That, too, is ended. Nothing of all this can matter to me now. I will never think |of it again. It has ceased to exist a3 far as I am concerned. And that is all, Frank. Consider, reflect—that is |all. Nothing else has happened. And that is not much. We are young and strong; we are not really old. And I tell you we can live a new life, some- | where, together; somewhere, a long | way from London. A new life, Frank; a new life!—I love you, Frank. You are everything to me. You are my | idol. my husband, my darling, my | child, my great child.” She clasped his head passionately to her bosom in a rapture, her eyes sparkled, and a flush tinged the azalea | whiteness of her cheeks. But his eyes f met hers with a look of anguish. “You are an angel, Eva; you are an | angel. But I cannot claim you. For, \ | listen to me. The real truth——” ri “Well, what is the truth?” “Bertie was not a scoundrel. He was nothing but a man, a very weak man. That is the truth. . Listen to me, Eva; let me speak. I thought a great deal—at Scheveningen—among the sandhills—you know. I thought over everything I could remember of what he had said to me in those last mo- ments, in self-defense; and by degrees all his words came back to me, and I felt that he had been in the right.” “In the right? Oh, Frank! I do not know what he said in self-defense; but now, still, shall Berti influence come between us to part us?” she cried, in | bitter despair. “No; it is not that,” he replied. “Make no mistake; it is not Bertie’s in- fluence which. divides us; it is my guilt.” “Your guilt?” “My guilt, which rises before me from time to time, reminding me of what I have done, so that I cannot for- get it, shall never forget it. Let me tell you. He was right in what he said at last. He was a weak creature, he said, flung into life without any strength of will, Was that his fault? He despised himself for having dene ~ so mean a thing about those tetters. But he had not known what else to do. Well, I forgive him for being weak, for he could not help it; and we are all wea am weak, too.” ‘But you would never hay such a thing?’ cried Eya. is aoee “Because I, perhaps, am different. But I am weak, all the same. I am weak when I am angry. And then— » then in my fury, I am utterly; utterly weak. This is the truth. This is what is crushing me; and, broken as I am, I cannot be your husband. Oh, what would I not give to have him still alive! I was fond of him once, and now I could say to him I do un deren ee I forgive him.” ‘Frank, do. not be so fool $0 foolishly good,” she exclaimed. a ae ae not -toolish, goodness,” he said, with a melancho! © philosophy.” ly smile. “It is “Well, then,” she cried, rough tone, “I am no ang am not foolishly good; I do not forgiv him for being a villain and f > or making us miserable. I hate him, hate hi: dead as he is. I hate him for contitne: between us, and haunting us now that you have killed him, and for the dia- bolical influence he still bi ll brings to bear on you and me. But, I say, [ not have it,” she shrieked, de: iy, starting to her feet, but still cli i to him. “I tell you that I will not lose you for the second time. 1 Swear thay if you try to leave me-here, I thay stand, holding you fast in “my ; wi him! I ante ad an Dart us: T hate and if he were it myself. I wont kt ie ee? him, strangle him)" ands a 8 if she gripped his throat, and held Frank in he were her Sar embrace as though Te Be Continuea, ! )

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