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The Lemmon herald. (Lemmon, Perkins County, S.D.) 1912-1917, September 15, 1915, Image 4

Image and text provided by South Dakota State Historical Society – State Archives

Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn89074986/1915-09-15/ed-1/seq-4/

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CY DOO0, MAD
AITD oarjPA/ty
Worst. My sister was true to you. I
would have been ju6t as true, and after
you had suffered the torments of hell,
it was my plan to reveal everything to
feu. But you would have had your
finish rnent by that time. When you
Were at the very end of your strength,
when you tremble" on the edge of ob
livion, then I would have hunted you
out and laughed at you and told you
the truth. But you would have had
years of anguish—years, 1 say."
"I have already had years of agony,
ftay do not overlook that fact," said
IW- "I suffered for twenty years. I
•as it the edge of oblivion more than
once, if It is a pleasure for you to hear
me say it, Therese."
"It does not offset the pain that her
Slffering brought to me. It does not
Counter balance the nnhappiness you
fllve to her boy, nor the stigma you
Wit upon him. I am glad that you suf
fered. It proves to me that you secret
considered yourself to be in the
Wong. You doubted yourself. You
ltere never sure, and yet you crushed
fie life out of her innocent, bleeding
heart. You let her die without a word
to show that you—"
I was lost to the world for years,"
he said. "There were many years when
1 was not in touch with—"
"But her letters must have reached
you. She wrote a thousand of—"
"They never reached me," he said
significantly.
You ordered them destroyed?" she
fried in sudden comprehension.
"I must decline to antww ibat qoes
tioii."
CHAPTER X*1.
Revenge Turned Bitter.
She gave him a curious, incredulous
•mile, and then abruptly returned to
Mr charge. "When my sister came
home, degraded, I was nine years of
*ge, but I was not so young that I did
not know that a dreadful thing had
happened to her. She was blighted
beyond all hope of recovery. It was to
me— little me—that she told her story
over and over again, and it was I to
whom she read all of the pitiful let
ters she wrote to you. My father
wanted to come to America to kill you.
He did come later on, to plead with
you and to kill you if you would not
listen to him. But you had gone—to
Africa, they said. I could not under
stand why you would not give to her
that little baby boy. He was hers and
She stopped short In lier recital
aad covered her eyes with her hands.
He waited for her to go on, sitting as
rigid as the image that faced him from
beyond the table's end. "Afterwards,
my father and my uncle made every ef
fort to get the child away from you,
ut he was hidden—you know how
carefully he was hidden so that she
might never find him. For ten years
they searched for him—end you. For
ten years she wrote to yCu, b*gg^ng
you to let her have him, if only for a
little while at a time. She promised
to restore him to you, God bkss her
poor soul! You never replied. You
scorned her. We were rich—very rich.
But our money was of no help to us in
the search for her boy. You had se
creted him too well. At last, one day,
•he told me what it was that you ac
cused her of doing. She told me about
Ouldo Feverelli, her music master. I
ne* him, James. He had known her
from childhood. He was one of the
finest men I have ever seen."
"He was in love with her." grated
Brood.
'Perhaps. Who knows? But if so,
he never uttered so much as one word
ov®
to
her- He challenged you.
™ny did you refuse to fight him?"
'Because she begged me not to kill
Dim. Did she tell you that?"
Yes. But that was not the real rea-
ron-
It was because
*u'® °f your ground."
^'1 deny that!"
mind, it Is enongti that poot
dirt
E,°
ym w«c» mI
passed out
she
of her life. She
,8ee
him
a8ajn
until just before
ied. He was a noble gentleman.
th Wrote
but one letter to her after
hftvo day In this house. I
here in this packet."
h«p
drew a
i
Paclta«e of papers from
om
and
thl
laid it upon the table
re
There were a half dosen
,rs
,led
together with a piece of
white ribbon.
But one letter from him," she went
IJ®ave
brought it here for you to
But not now!
i_t uuw: There are other
cnnoJf
and
docun»ents
here for jra* to
^•Jler. They the gmw
I u mt that ros skite*
15 WHITE
GEORGE DAM M'CUTCHM
milSTRAIlONS jS-R/IY WALTERS
CHAPTER XX—Continued.
•*14
"No, I do not forget, James. There
•as but one way is which I could hope
"to steal him away from you, and 1
Went about It deliberately, with my
•yes open. I came here to induce him
to ran away with me. I would have
taken him back to his mother's home,
to her grave, and there I would have
told him what you did to her. If after
fctaring my story he elected to return
10 the man who had destroyed his
aether, I should have Btepped aside
and offered no protest But I would
fcftve taken him away from you in the
manner that would have hurt you the
find dfsw bark fro® them. They con
Tlct you, Jumes."
"Now I can see why you have taken
up this fight against me. You—you
know she was innocent," he said In a
low, unsteady voice.
And why I have hated you, al—e?
But what you do not understand is
how I could have brought myself to
the point of loving you."
Loving me! Good heaven, woman,
what do you—"
Loving you in spite of myself," she
cried, beating upon the table with her
hands. "I have tried to convince my
self that it was not I hut the spirit of
Matilde that had come to lodge in my
treacherous body. 1 hated you for
myself and I loved you for Matildo.
She loved you to the end. She never
hated you. That was it. The pure,
deathless love of Matiide was constant
ly fighting against the hatred I bore
for you. I believe as firmly as I be
lieve that I am alive that she has been
near me all the time, battling against
my insane desire for vengeance. You
have only to recall to yourself the mo
r- onts when you were so vividly re
minded of Matilde Valeska. At those
times I am sure that something of Ma
tilde was in me. I was not myself. You
have looked into my eyes a thousand
times with a question in your own.
Your soul was striving to reach the
soul of Matilde. Ah, all these months
1 have known that you loved Matilde—
not me. You loved the Matilde that
was in me. You—"
"I have thought of her—always of
&er—when you were in my arms."
"I know how well you loved her,"
she declared slowly. "I know that you
went to her tomb long after her death
was revealed to you. 1 know that years
ago you made an effort to find Fever
elli. You found his grave, too, and you
could not ask him, man to man, if yon
had wronged her. But in spite of all
that you brought up her boy to be sac
rificed as—"
"I—I—good God, jum I to believe
you? If he should be my son!" he
cried, starting up, cold with dread.
"He is your son. He could be no
other man's eon. I have her dying
word for it. She declared It in the
presence of her God. Wait! Where
are you going?"
"I am going down to him!"
"Not yet, James. I have still more
to say to you—more to confess. Here!
Take this package of letters. Read
them as you sit beside his bul—not
his deathbed, for I shall restore him
to health, never fear. If he were to
die, 1 should curse myself to the end
of time, for I and I alone would have
been the cause. Here are her letters
•—and the one Feverelli wrote to her.
This is her deathbed letter to you. And
this is a letter to her Kin and yours!
You may some day read it to him. And
here—this is a document requiring me
to share my fortune with her son. It
is a pledge that I took before my fa
ther died a few years ago. If the boy
ever appeared, he was to have his
mother's share of the estate—and it is
not an inconsiderable amount, James.
He is independent of you. He need
ask nothing of you. I was taking him
home to his own."
She shrank slightly as he stood over
her. There was more of wonder and
pity in his face than condemnation.
She looked for the anger she had ex
pected to arouse in him, and was
dumfounded to see that it was not re
vealed In his steady, appraising eyes.
"Your plan deserved a better fate
than this Therese. It was prodigious!
I—I can almost pity you."
"Have—have you no pain—no regret
—no grief?" she cried weakly.
"Yes," he said, controlling himself
with difficulty. "Yes, I know all these
and more." He picked up the pack
age of letters and glanced at the sub
scription on the outer envelope. Sud
denly he raised them to his lips and,
with his eyes closed, kissed the words
that were written there. Her head
drooped, and a sob came into her
throat. She did not look up until he
began speaking to her again, quietly,
even patiently. "But why should you,
even in your longing for revenge—why
should you have planned to humiliate
life, that you should turn him into a
skulking, sneaking betrayer? What
would you have gained in the end? His
loathing, his scorn—my God, Therese,
did you not think of all this?"
"I have told you that I thought of
everything. I was mistaken. I did not
stop to think that I would be taking
him away from happiness in the shape
of love that he might bear f.v someone
else. 1 did not know that there was a
Lydia Desmond. When I came to know,
my heart softened and my purpose lost
most of Its force. He would have been
safe with me, but would he have been
happy? I could not give him the kind
of love that Lydia promised. I could
only be his mother's sister to him. He
was not in love with me. He has al
ways loved Lydia. I fascinated him—
just as I fascinated you. He would not
have gone away with me, even after
you had told him that he was not your
son. Ha would not do that to yo*.
i. ta Hits of the blew *m
bt*. He was total t» Lydi* sad
himself."
"And what did he think of you?1
manded Brood scornfully.
"If you had not come upon us here,
he would have known me for who 1 am
and he would have forgiven me. I had
asked him to go away with me. He re
fused. Then 1 was about to tell him
the whole story of my life, of his life
and of yours. Do you think he would
have refused forgiveness to me? No!
He would have understood."
"But up to that hour he thought of
you as a—a what shall I say?"
"A bad woman? Perhaps. I did not
care. It was part of the price I was to
pay in advance. I would have told him
everything as soon as the ship on
which we sailed was outside the har
bor yonder. That was my Intention,
and I know you believe me when I aay
that there was nothing more in my
mind, lime would have straightened
everything out for him. He could have
had his Lydia, even though lie went
away with me. Once away from here,
do you think that he would ever re
turn? No! Kven though he knew you
to be his father, he would not forget
that he has never been your eon. You
have hurt him since he was a babe.
Do you understand? I do not hatu you
now. It is something to know that you
have worshiped her all these years.
Y'ou were true to her. What you did
long, long ago was not your fault. You
believed that she had wronged you.
But you went on loving her. That is
what weakened my resolve. You loved
her to the end, she loved you to the
end. Well, in the face of that, could I
go on hating you? You must have
been worthy of her love. She knew you
better than all the world. You came
to me with love for her in your heart
You took me, and you loved her all the
time. I am not sure, James, that yo»^
are not entitled to this miserable, un
happy love I have come to feel for you
—my own love, not Matilde's."
"Y'ou—you are saing this so that I
may refrain from throning you out In
to the street—"
"No!" she cried, coming to her feet.
"I shall ask nothing of you. If I am
to go it shall be because I have failed.
I have been a blind, vain glorious fool.
The trap has caught me instead of you,
and I shall take the consequences. I
have lost—everything!"
"Yes. you have lost every
thing," said
be steadilj.
"You despise me?"
*•1 cannot ask you to «tay here
after this."
"But 1 shall not go. I have a duty
to perform before I leave this house. I
intend to save the life of that poor boy
downstairs, so that he may not die be
lieving me to be an evil woman, a
faithless wife. Thank God, I have ac
complished something! You know that
he is your son. You know that my sis
ter was as pure as snow. You know
that you killed her and that she loved
you in spite of the death you brought
to her. That is something. That—"
de­
Brood dropped into the chair and
buried his face on his quivering arms.
In muffled tones came the cry from his
soul. "They've all Baid that be is like
me. I have seen it at times, but 1 would
not believe. I fought against it, reso
lutely, madly, cruelly! Now it is too
late and I see! I see, I feel! Damn you
—•oh, damn you—you have driven me
to the killing of my own son!"
She stood over him, silent for a long
time, her hand hovering above bis
head.
"He is not going to die," she said at
last, when she was sure that she had
full command of her voice. "I can
promise you that, James. I shall not
go from this house until he is well. I
shall nurse him back to health and
give him back to you and MatiJde, for
now I know that he belongs to both of
you and not to her alone. Now, James,
you may go down to him. He is not
conscious. He will not hear you pray
lng at his bedside. He—"
A knock came at the door—a sharp,
imperative knock. It was rejeated sev
eral times before either of them could i
summon the courage to call out. They
were petrified with the dread of some
thing that awaited them beyond the
closed door. It was she who finally
called out: "Come in!"
Doctor Hodder, coatless and bare
armed, came into the room.
CHAPTER XXII.
The Closed Door.
The doctor blinked fur a moment.
The two were leaning forward with
alarm in their eyes, their hands grip
ping the table.
"Well, are we to send for an under
taker?" demanded Hodder irritably.
Brood started forward. "Is—is he
dead?"
"Of course not, but he might as well
be," exclaimed the other, and it was
and degrade him even more than I plain to be seen that he was very much
could have done? Was it just to your I out of patience. "You've called in an
sister's son that you should blight L'.s I other docto* and a priest and now I
hear that P. Presbyterian parson is in
the library. Hang it all. Brood, why
don't you send for the coroner and un
dertaker and have done with it? I'm
blessed If I—"
Yvonne came swiftly to hla side. "Is
he conscious? Does he know?"
For God's Eake, Hodder, is there
any hope?" cried Brood.
"I'll be honest with you, Jim. I don't
believe there is. It went In here,
above the heart, and it's lodged back
there by the spine Bomewhere. We
haven't located it yet, but we will. Had
to let up on the ether for awhile, you
see. He opened his eyes a few mij
utes ago, Mrs. Brood, and my assistant
is certain that he whispered Lydia
Desmond's name. Sounded that way
to him, but, of coarse—"
"There! You sea, Jamet?" she eried,
whirling upon her husband.
"1 think you'd better step fo and see
bim now, Jim," said the doctor, and
Aeatg baflOfltinff *arr castle- "Ha wmm
come tr a rat* aaO—well, i» nar the
last time he'll ever open his eyes. Yes, Lydia."
It's as had as all that."
"I ll go—at once," said Brood, his
face ashen. "You must revive htm for
a few minutes, Hodder. There s some
thing I've got to say to him He must
be able to hear av.d to understand me.
It is the most Important thlug in the
He choked up suddenly.
"Y'ou'11 have to be careful, Jim. He's
ready to collapse. Then it's all off."
"Nevertheless, Doctor Hodder, my
husband has something to say to his
son that cannot be put off for an in
stant. I think it will mean a great
deal to him in his fight for recovery.
It will make life worth living for him
Hodder stared for a second or two.
"He'll need a lot of courage and if any
thing can put it into him, he'll make a
bett. fight. If you get a chance, say
it to him, Jim. I—I—if It's got any
thing to do with his mother, say It. for
pity's sake. He has moaned the word
a do.en times—"
"it has to do with his mother," Brood
cried out. "Comel I want you to hear
It, ti o, Hodder."
"There Isn't much time to lose» I'm
afra: i,' began Hodder, shaking his
hea His gaze suddenly rested on
Mrs Brood's face. She was very erect,
and ,i smile such as he had never seen
before was on her lips—a smile that
puzzled and yet inspired him with a
positive, undeniable feeliug of encour
agement
"lie is not going to die. Doctor Hod
der." she said quietly. Something
went through his body that warmed It
curiously. He felt a thrill, as one who
Is s ued by a great overpowering ex
citi nient.
She preceded them into the hall.
Brood came last. He closed the door
behind him after a swift glance about
the room thai had been his most pri
vate retreat for years.
He was never to set foot Inside Its
wails again. In that single glance he
bade farewell to It forever. It was a
hated, unlovely spot. He had spent an
age it during those bitter morning
hours, an age of imprisonment.
t)» the landing below th?y came up
on Lydia. She was seated on a win
dow ledge, leaning wearily against
the casement. She did not rtse as they
approached, but watched them with
st"ads. smoldering eyes in w»iich there
was i.o friendliness, no compaction.
They were her enemies, they had killed
the thing she loved.
Brood's eyes met hens tor an instant
and then fell before the Utter look
they encountered. His shoulders
Mil i
"And What Think You?"
drooped as he passed close by her m*
tlonless figure and followed the doctor
down the hall to the bedroom door. It
opened and closed an instant later and
he was with his son.
For a long time, Lydla's somber, pit
eous gaze hung upon the door through
which he had passed and which was
closed so cruelly against her, th« one
who loved him best of all. At last khe
looked away, her attention caught by a
queer clicking sound near at hand. She
was surprised to find Yvonne Brood
standing close beside her, her eyes
closed and her fingers telling the beads
that ran through her fingers, h'er lips
moving in voiceless prayer.
The girl watched her dully for a few
moments, then with growing fascina
tion. The incomprehensible creature
was praying!
Lydia believed that Frederic had
shot himself. She put Yvonne down as
the real cause of the calamity that had
fallen upon the house. But for her,
James Brood would never have had a
motive for striking the blow that
crushed all desire to live out of the un
happy boy. She had made of her hus
band an unfeeling monster, and now
she prayed! She had played with the
emotions of two men and now she
begged to be pardoned for her folly!
An inexplicable desire to laugh at the
plight of the trifler came over the girl,
but even as she checked it another and
•lore unaccountable force ordered her
to obey the impulse to turn once more
to look into the face of her companion.
Yvonne was looking at her. She had
ceased running the beads and her
hands hung limply at her side. For a
full minute, perhaps, the two regarded
each other without speaking.
"He Is not going to die, Lydia," said
Yvonne gravely.
The girl started to her feet. "Do yon
think it is your prayer and not nine
that has reached God's ear?" she cried
in real amazement.
"The prayer of a nobler woman than
either you or I has gone to th« tbrore,"
said the other.
Lydla'a eyas grew dark wftta resent
ment «#tf* iMW prevented
iMHRl. mummi»++e thmt
an r*w
hat Is your object In keeping me
away from him at such a time as this.
Mrs. Hrood?" demanded Lydia
refuse to let me go in to him. Is It be
cause you are afraid of what—"
"There are try lug days ahead of us,
Lydia." Interrupted Yvonne. "We shall
have to face them together I can
promise you this: Frederic *111 be
saved for you. Tomorrow, next day
perhaps, I may be able to explain
everything to you. You hate me to
day. Everyone In this house hates me
—even Frederic. There is a day com
ing when you will not hate me. That
was ray prayer. Lydia. I was not pray
ing for Frederic, but for myself."
Lydia started. "For yourself? I
might have known you—"
"You hesitate? Perhaps It Is Just as
well."
"I want to say to you. Mrs. Brood,
that It is my purpose to remain iu this
house as long as I can be—"
"You are welcome, Lydia. You will
be the one great tonic that Is to re
store him to health of mind and body
Yes, I shall go further and say that
you are commanded to stay here atstl
help me in the long fight that is ahead
of ua."
"I—1 thank you. Mrs. Brood," the
girl was surprised Into saying
Both of them turned quickly as the
door to Frederic's room opened aftd
James Hrood came out into the hall.
Mis face was drawn with pain and
anxiety, but the light of exaltation was
la hlj eyes.
"Come, Lydia." he said softly, after
he had closed the door behind him
"He know a me. He Is conscious.
Hodder can't understand It, but h«»
seems to have suddenly grown
stronger. He—"
"Stronger?" cried Yvonne, the ring
of triumph In her voice. "I knew! 1
could feel It coming—his slretigth-
even out here, James. Yes, go in now.
Lydia. Ytu will see a strange sight,
my dear. James Hrood will kneel be
side his son and tell him—"
"Come!" said Brood, spreading out
his hands In a gesture of admission
"You must hear it. too. Lydia. Not
you, Therese! You are not to come
I*."
"1 grant you ten minutes, James."
she said, with the air of a dictator.
"After that I shall fake my stand be
.•'de him and you will not he needed."
She struck her breast sharply with
her clinched hand. "His one and only
hope lies here, James. I am his nnl
vatlon. I am his strength. When you
come out of that room again It will
be to stay out until I
give
Times there were when a pensive
mood brought the touch of sadness to
her grateful heart. She was happy
and Frederic was happy, but what of
the one who actually had wrought the
miracle? That one alone was un
happy, unrequited, undefended. There
was no place for her in the new order
of things. When Lydia thought of
her—as she often did—It was with an
indescribable craving in her soul. She
longed for the hour to come when
Yvonne Brood would lay aside the
mask of resignation and demand trib
ute when the strange defiance thnt
held all of them at bay *ouid dis
appear and they could feel ihat she
no longer regarded them as adversa
ries.
There was no longer a symptom of
rancor In the heart of Lydia Desmond.
She realized that her sweetheart's re
covery was due almost entirely to the
remerkntile Influence exercised by this
wnisn' «t a time when mortal age*-
wmmf' m. a*i JT,.
power ro tnwar «vath. at least ta this
lasUtic*. had its effect, not osly on
ths wounded msn hut on those Wtko
attended him Doctor Hodder nnd th*»
"You nurses were not slow to admit that
her magnificent courage, her mlmtmi
•comfiil self asfcurmuce, supplied t)Mm
wtth an incentive that otherwise might
never have got bcrond the form of a
mere hope There was something pe»-
the word
for you to re-enter. Go now and put
spirit into him. That is all that I ask
of you."
He stared for a moment and then
lowered his head. A moment later
Lydia followed him into the room and
Yvonne was alone in the hall. Alone?
Ranjab was ascending the stairs. lie
came and stood before her, and bent
his knee.
"I forgot," she said, looking down
upon him without a vestige of the
old dread In her eyes. "I have a friend,
after r:U
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Joy of June.
On a warm morning toward the
middle of the month of June Fredprlc
and Lydia sat In the quaint, old fash
ioned courtyard, in the grateful shade
of the south wing and almost directly
beneath the balcony off Yvonne's bou
doir. He loungpd comfortably, yet
weakly, in the invalid's chair that had
been wheeled to the spot by the dog
like Ranjab, and she sat on a pile of
cushions at his feet, her back resting
against the wall. Looking at htm, one
would not have thought that he bad
passed through the valley of the
shadow of death and was but now
emerging into the sunshine of secur
ity. His face was pale from long con
finement, but there was a healthy glow
to the skin and a clear light in the
eye. For a week or more he had been
permitted to walk about the house and
into the garden, always leaning on the
arm of his father or the faithful Hin
du. Kach succeeding day saw his
strength and vitality Increase and each
night he slept with the peace of a
carefree child.
As for Lydia, she was radiant «fth
happiness. The long flght was over
She had gone through the campaign
against death with loyal, unfaltering
courage there had never been an in
stant when her stanch heart had failed
her there had been distress but never
despair. If the strain told on her it
did not matter, for she was of the
fighting kind. Her love was the sus
tenance on which she throve despite
the beggarly offerings that were laid
before her during those weeks of fam
ine.
Itlvely startling in her serene convic
tion that Frederic was not to die No
less a skeptic than the renownedl
Doctor Hodder confided to Lydia end
her mother that he now believed In
the supernatural and never a^-st*
would say "there Is no Ood With
the dampness of death on the oun*
man's brow, a remarkable change ha4
occurred even aa he watched for th«*
last fleeting breath. It was as If suinei
secret, unconquerable force had sud
denly intervened U take the whole,
matter out of nature's hands It waa
not in the books that he should get
well it was against every rule of na
ture that he should have survived that
I'rst day's struggle He was marked
for death and there was no alternative.
Then came the he« tldi-ring. mystify
ing change Life did not take Its
pe ted flight instead It clung, flicker
ing but indestructible, to Its clay an#
would not obey the laws nf nature.
For days and days life hufig by what
we are pleu^'d to call a thread, the
great shears of death could not sever
the tiny thlug that held Fnderifi'e
soul to earth. There was no hour in
any of those days in which the fee
wtldered scientist and his nsslstante
did not proclaim that It would be hi*
last, and yet he gave the lie them.
Hodder had gone to James I rood at
the end of the third day. and with the
sweat of the haunted on his brow had
whispered hoarsely that the ease was
out of his hands! He was no Ion
the doctor but an agent governed hy e
spirit that would not permit death to
claim its own! And somehow lUoodi
understood far better than the man oC
science.
The true story of the shooting had
long been known to Lydia and her
mother. Brood confessed every thing
to them. He assumed all of the blame
for wluit had transpired on that tragto
morning. He humbled himself before
them, and when they shook their
heads and turned their backs upon
him he was not surprised, for lu knew
they were not convicting him of ae
sault with a deadly firearm loiter
on the story of Therese was told bf
him to Frederic and t* lrl. He did
his wife no Injustice In the recital.
Frederic laid his hand upon the soft
brown head at his kuce and voiced the
thought thai was in his mind.
1
"You are wondering, as I am. toe*
what Is to become of Yvonne after to
day," he said. "There must be an
end. and If It doesn't come now, when
will It come? Tomorrow we sail It
la certain that she is not to accom
pany us. Khe has said so herself, and
father has said ao. He will not take
her with him. So today must aee the
end of things
"Frederic, I want you to do som*
thing for me." said Lydia. earnest^.
"There was a time when I could act
have asked this of you, but now I
implore you to speak to your father
in her behalf. 1 love her, Freddy, dear.
I a n n o e I S e a s s n o i i o
any of us. she expects nothing, and
yet she loves all of us-yes. all of vsk
She will never, by v «.rd or look, make
single plea for herself. I have watched
her closely all these weeks. Them
was never as Ihstant when she re
vealed the slightest sign of an appeal.
She takes It for granted that she has
no place in our liveg. ju our memory,
yes. but that Is all. I think she to
reconciled to what she considers her
fate and It ha« not entered her mlndl
to protest against It. Perhaps It le
natural thnt she should feel that way
about jt. But it Is-—oh, Freddy, it is
terrible! If he wcfuid -would only un
bend a little toward her. If he—"
"Listen, Lyddy, dear. I don't be
lieve it's altogether up to him. There
Is a barrier that we csn't see. but thejr
d— both of them. M^ mother stand*
between them. You s«.e, I've come to
know my father lately, dear. He's not
a stranger to me any longer. I know
what sort of a heart he's got He
never got over loving my mother, ant
he'll never get over knowing that
Yvonne knows that she loved him t*
the day she died We know what tt
w is in Yvonne that attracted him from
the first, and the knows. He's not
likely to forgive himself so easily He
didn't play fair with either of theifc
that's what I'm trying to get at. I
don't believe he can forgive himself
any more than he can forgive Yvonne
for the thing she set about to do. rat
see, Lyddy, she married him withoal
love She debased herself, even
though she can't admit It even now.
I leve her, too. She's the most won
derful woman in the world. She's get
the finest Instincts a woman evel»
possessed But she did give herself
man she hated with all her soul.
and—well, there you are. He can't for
get that, you know arid she can't.
Leaving me out of the question alto
gether- and von, too—there still re
mains the sorry fact that she has be
trayed her elster a love. She lovea
hirn for herself now, and—that's what
hurts both of them. It hurts because
they both know that ha still loves
my mother."
"I'm not so sere of that," pro
nouncr TAdla. "He Tcvos o ir rnotti»
er's memory, he loves her for tfc#
wrong be did her. but—well, 1 doal
see how he can help loving Yvonne, MT
sptte of everything. Khe-'
"Ah, but you have it from Ser Itaft
he loved my matter even when A#
was in bis arms, because, in a way, afc#
represented the leve that had nevo#
died. Now ail that la a thiag of AM
past. She la herself, abe Ic net MaUMki

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