Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 29 October 1885 — Page 10

A FAMILY AFFAIR.

By HUGH CONWAY,

Author of "Called Back" and "Dark Days"

Hervey scow led," hesitated and then walkeo out of the room. He was wise in so doing, as he might have said more than he intended and a premature disclosure, indeed, a disclosure at all, of the truth would entirely ruin his clouded prospacis. As, from lack of politeness, or flurry of discomfiture, he left the door ajar, Carruthers rose and walked across the room to closa it. Just then the door opened and the two men confronted each other on the threshold. "If you write to Mis3 Clauson will you give her a message from me?" asked Hervey with forced civility. "That depends exactly upon what the message may be." "Will you tell her that I called on you and said the matter could now be easily arrangad? There's no harm in that." "There seems none. When I write I'll give it." "You'd better mention my real name. It's not Henry Morris—It's "I am acquainted with your real name," said Prank, with perfect nonchalance. Hervey grew very angry. "Now, I wonder who you may be," he said, "you who write to her. Perhaps youl'e sweet on each other, and look forward to a happy marriage." An incautious remark of the rogue's, yet one he could not refrain from making nor could he refrain from eyeing Carruthers to see how the shot told. Hard as the effort wa3, Carrtithers preserved his equanimity. "Perhaps so," he said carelessly. "I can't, however, imagine it can be of the slightest interest to you." The scornful emphasis laid on the last word flicked Hervey like a whip. "Perhaps sol" he echoed with his mocking laugh. "Ha, ha! do you think I'm a fool? Do you think you take me in with your studied ease? Don't I know you're dying to know who I-am and all about met" "I know a good deal already," said Frank, in scathing tones. "If I felt any wish to know more I should apply at Scotland Yard or wherever the proper office may be."

This taunt vlas more than even the most amiable ticket-of-leave man could be expected to let pass. It finished Hervey entirely. He boiled over. With the violent expletive which invariably accompanies such an act ho struck out full at the speaker.

This Carruthers was one of those deceptive men who at first glance gave little* promise of much strength. Yet if his frarm was spare his shoulders were square, and al! the weight he carried was bone and muscle. He may be summed up in the simple word wirv and wiry men, as many a muscularlooking athlete knows to his cost, are not adversaries to be despised. He was far from being one of those marvellous creatures, usually officers in the guards, who, in fiction at least, can crush up silver flagons, toss with one band a six teen-stone ruffian over a ditch or a railing, but all the same he had his fair share of manly strength.

After parrying Hervey's Mow, he simply jerked out his right arm to the very best of his knowledge and agility, throwing the whole weight of his body itito it, and, in the language of what may now be called the revived prize ring, "got well home."

These were the only two blows struck, and for this reasoh: Hervey, when he received Frank's blow, was standing on the landing. He staggered back and went headlong down the steep stairs. tf seemed as if his uenk.

He staggered back and went, headlong down the steep stair*. "u must be broken. However he gathered himself up. groaned as in pain, shook his fist at the victor, swore and then found his way out. Carruthers returned to his papers, but the reflections to which this interview gave rise made this afternoon a blank so far as literary work went.

Two days after this his friend Field called on him. "I say, Carruthers," he exclaimed, "you're a nice sort of young man. I sent a fellow who wanted a helping hand to you and, b&ng me! you gave it to him with a vengeance. Helped him down, not up, though." "He's been to you, has he!" "Yes, he called to-day—in splints. Said you insulted him, aud chucked him over the stairs. Can't think how you did it. Doesn't seem like you, either." "I had the best of reasons." "So I told him. but he won't believe ma You've broken his fibula or tibula, or hia tib and fibula." "His leg I I saw the blackguard walk •way." "Perhaps I'm not right about the names. His arm is broken. He vows he will have compensation. Go to law, etcetera." "I don't think he will," said Carruthers, significantly. "Perhaps not, if your reasons were good ones. I don't ask them but look here, old fellow. He's got no money, and won't be able to earn any for awhile.. Don't you think you-ought to/do something for h'm?" "No, I don't," said Frank but I will. Keep the fellow away from me. But you can pay his doctor's bill and let him have a pound or two a week until he gets all right again."

Field laughed. "You'll find it a costly amusemaut breaking bode? like this." "My dear Field," slid Frank, "if you knew all I know you'd think it was cheap at the orice in this particular case."

So by a strange irony of fate for some weeks Maurice Hervey was fed and tored at the expense of Frank Carruthers.

CHAPTER XXVin. "i CANNOT LIVE THIS I-IFE!" Beatrice was at Munich. Munich, that city for its size, perhaps, the most regal cap­

ital in Europa. JMunica, witnus rairstre?©, noble statues, palacas oil qnd hew, libraries, museum. art ^allori'M, and I'a-tfc tlv?t reputation for cheap living. Munich, which stands boldly out on a barren plain, uo doubt feeling it has little which it naed bp ashamed to show to the world, except perhaps the vagaries of tha eccentric being, its king.

Beatrice never quite knew what inducad her to choose the capital of Bavaria for her resting place. Honestly, when she wrote from London to her uncles, she had not set tied whither to wend hor way. She might then just as likely have gone to Paris, Bru3 sels, Vienna or Borlin as to Munich.

She fixed on Germany for various reasons. She bad that feeling, which justly or unjustly, is common to most "English people, that an unprotected an:l not ^unattractive woman is more free from annoyance in a German than in a French town. She al3o fancied she knew the German lauguaga batter than slia knew French. The scientific severity of the great Teutonic tongue had always charmed her. She had studied it deeply. Sho could read it in it3 classic forni3 with a certain amount of facility. Sue believed she could speak it well enough for the purposes of ordinary conversation. Alas I sha was but one of the many who. when gutturals, compound words and divisible participles are flying about like hail, find what a fraud is tha boastod phonetic spelling:, and what an age it takes to feel at one's ease amid the elephantine gambols of the unwieldy language. Nevertheless, for the above and othor reasons she chose Germany.

As the party had left Blacktown provided with no travoliug indispensable^, excepS the most important of all, money, many purchases had to be made in London. All were, however, made in time to catch the evening train to Dover, aud that night Beatrice and her charges crossed the channel. Then it seemed to her she was onca mora able to breathe. In London sha had been haunted by the dread that Hervey would follow an.1 find her. Once out of England she felt safe.

Be it understood that Beatrica was not flying from the shame which a revelation of her foolish marriage and subsequent act of deception would entail although she would willingly have paid a large yearly sum, so long as her husband laft her in p9aca and kept the secret. Gladly would sha have made some arrangement which would spare her pride the mortification of her being known as the wifo of a felon. Gladly would she have done all in her power to save her father, her uncles, and such friends as she ha 1, the pain chey must feel when all wa? revealed. Yet it was not on this account she fiad. Her one aim was to save the child from the man who was his father.

She believed he could legally claim her boy. She knew he was vi^jain enough to take him by force or fraud if the chance occurred. The moment Harry was in Hervey's hands she saw she would be at his mercy. She would be forced to submit to any conditions, however exacting and humiliating, in order to regain possession of the one thing which was left her, the one thing she could love, or was parmitted to love. Flight gave her respite gave her time for consideration. It was the simplest and easiest way out of the difficulty. So she decided upon it.

O.ice out of Eugland they traveled by easy stages, and eventually reached their destination—Munich. The city on inspection seemed as suited as any other to Beatrice's nee ls, so she hired a furnished flat, engaged a good-tempered, handy Bavarian servant, and settled down to that quiet, calm life which she had in her letters to the Talberts described herself as living.

These letters were sent under cover to a friend of Mrs. Miller's, who posted them in Loudon. As English stationery can be procured on the continent as easily a3 everything else that is English, the letters conveyed no information which could be used to discover the rotreat. Beatrice dreaded sending them sha feared that some unforeseen slip connected with them might disclose her abode. But, it seemed so unkind not to let her uncles know she was alive and well. She did not write to her father. She fancied hor proceedings would not trouble him much, and felt sure that any letter sent to him would run the gauntlet of Lady Clauson's unkind comments. She trusted to Horace and Herbert to let him know all that tliey knew.

Beatrice made few, if any, chance acquaintances Some people never do. Jus!: as there are men whom other man never think of asking for a cigar light, so are there women to whom other women do noi make the first advances. Beatrice, with her reserved but polite manner, classical features and distinguished tearing, no doubt conveyed the idea that sha was a state not to be encroached upon without the passport of an introduction.

So for society she had her boy and her .Mithful slave, Mrs. Miller. However much a mother may love her child, she is not blamed if she finds that his constant company does not give all the pleasure the world can give. However faithful and intelligent a servant may be, the mistress may with a clear conscience look beyond her for a companion.

So Beatrice's life grew once more dismal and colorless. So much so that under its present conditions the late life at Hazlewood House, when contrasted with it, seemed a wild round of variety and dissipation.

She had her books and her music, but she had no one with whom to discuss the books, no one to listen to her music. She took lessons in painting from one of the thousand artists in the great art center, Munich, but this was but an aid to kill time, and unbroken with any ambitious aim. She had her thoughts. These she shunned as much as possible. It seemed to her that there was nothing upon which she could look back with pleasure, nothing to which she could look forward with hope. She often recalled Carruthers' assertion that in spite of manner she must have some dream of happiness, and she sighed as she thought that now less than ever did life show any joy of which she even dared to dream.

Beatrice was suiting one afternoon in tha room she called jer studio She was alone and in deep thought. She had just finished one of her periodical letters to her uncles. It was lying near her, directed but not sealed. Beatrice was wrestling with the temptation of sending a message to Frank. She could not bear to picture him thinking her cold and heartless. Should she add a line to her letter? Should she even write him a letterf But what could she say to him? Nothing, absolutely nothingl Besides, provided he had not yet learned the truth, the most conventional message from her would raise hopes never to bo realized. Poor Frank I why did he learn to love her! Why did she love him? No, not thatl She was happy that she loved him that she had found the power of loving and trusting still hers. Yes, hopeless as such love was, she rejoiced that she could love such a man as Frank. But no word, no message must be sent. "It is a part of the price I must pay for my folly," she said as she sealed her letter. Her eyes were full of tears as she did so. Mrs. Miller entered and saw her emotion. "My sweet, my dear," she said "what ir

it? 'mere is no fresn trouble*" "None, the old .no is enough," ud Bea!rir

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Mrs. Miller looked at her solicitously. "Yon era thinking of the man who loves you?" she raid Koothingly. "Yes," said Beatrice with recovered composure. "Yes, 1 am thinking that I may liavo wreckad his life as well as my own." "No. no, my poor dear. It will come right You will be bappy—- he will he happy." ieatric? smiled a hopeless smile. "It will he—it is written," continued Mrs. Miller. "Nothing can change it. God's rin is net shortened. His purpose atrica checked her sternly. Sinca Sarah's outbreak in the train all signs of fauatic.'sm had baen at once reprassad by Beatrice. "My lettor is ready," she said "take it and direct it to your friend. There are envelope.?."

Sarah glanced at her mistress, who was once mora deep in thought. She took two envelope and also astray half sheet of notepapar. Than she went into another rcora, and hastily writing a few words on the par per, place 1 it in an envelopa, addressed it, and inclose! it, with Beatrice's letter, in the packat which was to go to her friend in London.

Beatrice tesumed her painful trala of thought. Writing home had made her feel utterly wretched. It was now May nearly five months had she been living this dreary life, and keaping every one in ignorance as to whara sho was. How much longer must it go on? She could, of course, leave Munich waeurvar she thought fit, but every other pluca would bo just as dreary to her. Locality matters little when a sea of trouble surrounds one. Let a man count up his happiest days and he will find the place in which ho spent them contributed not much to their happiness. Beatrice, who wa3 now somewhere about twenty-three, had most certainly a right to expect some happy days in this world.

She began to ask herself the questions which had recently been framing themselves in her mind, Had she after all acted in tho wisest way Was her life to be quite marred by that one act of folly? If she turned and firmly grasped her nettle, would tha sting le fatal, er even more than sne could bear? She was, like m.st of us, a blending of contradictions. She was wise and foolish brave and timid proud and humble, as pressure of circumstances forced her to be. She began to loath this hiding, this shrinking into comers. Could she ne 'vo herself to come forth and face tho worst?

What was tha worst? The wor3t was her dread of losing her child. What if she wrote to Horace and lleiberfc and told them everything, begge tham to forgive the harmless deceit whicii she tad practiced in treated them to see this mau and make such terms as they could? Might she not. when they had assured her security anl peaca, face such scorn as the world would throw her?

Then she began to wonder if Hervey had revealed tho truthl If her father, Lady Clauson—here she shuddered—her uncles know that she was this man's wife. Although she had ju t. bean resolving to make it known to them, the thought of their being in possession of the knowledge was horrible to her. Yet all this while they might have known it—might have heard it from Hervey's lip?. This thought h»lt' maddened her. She must learn if it was so.

She thought regretfully of that peaceful life at Hazlowood House. Horace and Herbert's little womanish ways seemed part and parcel of the pleasant home. She thought of old Whittakor, of William Giles, of the other servants. She thought, with a pang of deeper regret, of Sylvanus Mordle, who had also found in her the woman he caul love. She even thought of young Purton's well-meant but unsophisticated advances. Then, of course, she thought of Carruthers —thought of him more than of all.

And Frank! Did Frank know, and if so, what did he think of her? Or, when he knew, what would he think of her? Did he, would he, curse her very memory? Ah, so far as her love was concerned there could be no hoee for better days.

At this juncture Beatrice broke down, just as she had broken down when she refuied Frank's love. She laid her head on th3 table and sobbed bitterly. Sarah returning from posting her letter found h#r so, and of course knelc beside hor, cried with her, and soothed her. "I cannot live this life!" sobbed Beatrica. "I cannot live it IongerI" 4

SWip

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"J cannot live this life," sobbed Beatrice, cannot live it longer." "My pretty dear! my poor darling!" said the woman, her hard features transfigured by pity, and smoothing the girl's brown hair as a mother might have done. "I can bear it no longer," said Beatrice. "I will write and tell them all. Tell them how I have been wronged—how I have wronged them. No," she exclaimed, starting to her feet, "I cannot do it. There must ba other means. He is mercenary. Oh, I will give him all if he will keep silent and leave me in peace—leave me and the boy in peace." "Let me go to England and see him," said Sarah. "Yuul"' Beatrice started at the idea "Yes. Let me go. He is a wicked man, but he can do ine no harm. Oh, my dear mistress, let me go. I can hear what he wants—muke him promise and put that down In writing. Let me do this for vou, my V^ar. By the love I bear you I ask it." "How could you find him?" '•He is sure to be in London. If not, there's those v.ho can tell mo where to find him. Say I may go. Let me go to-day—to-mor-row."

Beatrice mused. After all, the suggestion did not seem so absurd. Sarah was by nc means a fool. She could travel to England alone perfectly well. She could hear what t.hfa man asked now. Why should sho not let her go?

Mrs. Miller seemed on thorns of suspense. "Say I may go," she whispered. "I will think. I will tell you by an by. Send my boy to me I will think wiih him in my arms."

So the "shorn lamb," as he was now called

came to his mother, and nil tiie afternoon B»alric9 considered Mr.-. Miller's proposal. The timrb the considered tin mora jiuiinud she felt tb give it her countenanc?. f§

In the evening she told liM-she mtghfgo. Sh"1 gave her many instructions which were not to be exceeded. She was to find Hervey and hear his demands. She was to be firm, and above all have it clearly understood that he must sign a deed of separation, in which be relinquished all claim to the boy. Mrs. filler nodded grimly. She was not likely to err on the side of mercy. "Take plenty of money," said Beatrice. "Give him money if he asks for it. Make him understand that I have not concealed myself to save my money. That he can always have."

So it was arranged. Fully ono-hali of that night was spent oy Mrs. Miller on her knees. She was alone—Harry slopi with his mother as often as with his nurse—so she could offer up her wild prayers without interruption. If ever a fanatic wrestled with tho Supreme Being in prayer it WES Sarah Miller that night. For what did sbe pray? Perhaps it is as well not to ask, but to be Contented with the assurance that 3ho prayed for Beatrice's happiness.

CHAPTER XXIX.

"l THE MADONNA TI TEMPI. Beatrice's letter, after having been perused and commented upon by the Talba rts, was sent on to Frank Carruthers. A noto from Herbert was inclosed with it. "You will see"—he wrote—"that this lettor is as unsatisfactory as its predecessors. It give3 us absolutely no information as to where s"he is or why she left us. Now that we are assured of her being well, and, we suppose, safe, our fe ilin^ about her prolonged and unexplained abseuce is more than regrat—it is, in fact, serious annoyance. We find it quite a strain to answer inquiries about her without contradicting one anothar."

Naturally tho envelope which bore Herbert's handwriting was the first opened by Carruthers, and of course he read Beatrice's letter before ho read Herbert's. He searched the former in vaiu for hi* own name, littlo thinking how .the writer had sat for a long time before sho could bring herself to seaJ hor letter without sending him a crumb of comfort. He than read Herbart's commantary and smiled faintly as ha drew a ludicrous I picture of Horace and Herberi making counter statements to their friends. Ha mused a while, lidding Beatrice's letter in his hand. Hor iingars hail touched that sheet of paper so ho actually pressed it to his lips, and in doing RO caught a faint lingering odor of what he remembered was her favorite perfume. It was clear that Mr.

Carruthers' disease was as rampant as evar. By and by he turned to saa what oIrs Fate had brought him. Nowadays Fate shoots many of her arrows from the general postoffice. Carruthers found among other letters one addressed in a woman's handwriting. It had been sent to Oxford and at Oxford redirected to London. He opened it carelessly and found it containod a half sheet of note paper, on which was written: "Remember your promise. Wait, oh, be patient and wait!"

Carruthers threw ic asiae with a bitter smile. He well knew who Was the writer. Wait! What was there to wait for? However, the sight of those words brought back the memory of that strange nocturnal visit of tt^e woman's earnest, even impassioned appeal to him, to "wait five, ten, twenty years for the one he loved." Why should she write now and repoat th9 appeal? Sho who knew everything rhe who had accompanied Beatrice and who was probabty with her now.

Ho could not get the. memory of that Strange creature with hor dreary belief, yofc unswerving faith as to his own future, from his mind. At the time the woman'searnostmess had impressed him more than ho cared to con'e!. Suparstition is a quality to tho possession of Wiiicll no man o" our time is willing to own, not even to himself. Yet nine men out of ten are superstitious.

Carruthers told himself that such hope as ho had gathered from Mrs. Miller's words was simply gathered bocause ha believed her to be in Beatrice'^ confidence. Hero he was wrong. It was the woman's broad but absolute assertion, uttered with the passionate inspiration of a prophetess cf old, thathappine.- sin this world awaited him and Beatrice, which had baen of aid to him in his trouble. If faith can move stubborn mountains, why not a heart which is willing enough to move in a particular direct-on?

And now this woman repeated her message, and, as Carruthers read the letter, told him his case was no more hopeless than it was months ago.

He took the note which he had crumpled up and tossed away he spread it out and read it again. Ho found, moreover, that it was written on paper similar to that used by Beatrice, and upon turning it over he saw on the back a few words in pencil. They were written so faintly that he had to carry the note to a strong light in order to decipher them.

The words were "Madonna di Tempi," and to the best of his belief, as experts say when giving evidence, the handwriting wus Beatrice's.

What did the words mean, and how far would they aid him in finding Beatrice? He soon settled in his mind that "Madonna di Tempi" mtlst be the name of a picture. But what' picture? Where was it to be found?

Of course, it did not follow that supposing he could ascertain all about this picture, which might or might not be a worldfamed one, that he would find Beatrice near it. Nevertheless, the clew was worth following. He would have followed a finer clew than this to the end of the world on the chance of its leading him to Beatrice. So ho at once set about the task of getting information, if information could lie got, respecting a picture called the "Madonna di Tempi." He hopod, but hi3 hopes were nob very strong. Indeed, he couid not help comparing his ease to that of the fair Saracen's, who found her lover by the aid of two words. Yet she wa3 better off than he was. She at least had tho name of a place for one of her talismanic words. He had the name of what he supposed to bc.a picture nothing more. Z':"5

Mr. Carruthers was not one of the inner circle of art worshippers. His .sallet, his Sturm tind drang, his emotional days, were well over before the era of blue and white china. He had no rhapsodies, written or spokea, to arise hereafter and prick his conscience. He had not bowed his knee to tha intense, nor sacrificed on the altar of the incomprehensible. He was fond of pictures as pictures, and was bold enough to say he liked what he did like and that he disliked what he did dislike. Hence it will be at once seen that his opinion was worth nothing to Ijiv owint hirnwlf.

Having found the knowledge not indispensable, he could not, like many men, check off on his fingers the principal productions of tho grand old masters and name the spot of earth on hicb each one could be fouud. But like the man who, when challenged to light, replied, "I can't tight myself, but 1 have a little friend who can," and forthwith struck down his challenger with a short.

stout poker, lffr. Cfcrruf-hers, ir ne did not know, these things himself, had a friend whe knewi

Tin# friend was Mr. Burnett, a recognized Art authority. Frank found Mr. Burnett at his rooms, writing—critiques on th® recently opened exhibitions most likdy. '"Do you know any picture called the 'Madonna di Tempi? asked Carruthers. "A picture called fhe 'Madonna di Tempi.' Ah, yes. The '&adanna di Tempi.' Painted by Raphael. You have heard of Raphael, Carruthers!" "Where is it?' asked Frank quickly. "It is in the Old Finakothek.V "In the what?" "My dear Carruthers, how ignorant you aro. I thought YOU studied Greek at Oxford—Pinakothek is derived from a Greek word

N "I know all that, but whera is it?" "Your ignorance is deplorable. The old Pinakothek is in Munich. Munich, you may know, is the capital of

Frank jumped up. "Thank you," he said, "I am so much obliged." "Not going, CarruthersI Ob, sit down and have a chat. Tell me-all about your book. You must be dying to tell me all."

No, I'm not I must go now. Good-bye."

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But where are you going?" The words you road have fired me. 1 am going to Munich to see the 'Madonna di Tempi.'" And before Mr. Burnett could get out another .question, Carruthers, was gone.

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The words you read have fired me. I oia

The smallest slips ruin the most cleverly devised schemes.. The omission or the addition on a bill of exchange of a simple mark called a "tick," sent Messrs. Bidwell & Co. into retirement at the country's expense, instead of enjoying the fat of a foreign land at the C03t of the old lady of Threadneedle street. An act of Beatrice's, that of penciling down in an idle moment the title of a picture which had struck her fancy, brought Mr. Carruthers in hot hasta to her hiding place. Fate is turned by a feather 1

CHAPTER XXX'

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U,CL THE TRUTH AT LAST. ... Carruthers reached Munich late at nighfc He went straight to that comfortable hotel the "Four Seasons, and, feeling that the hour was too late to begin his researches, supped and went to bed. In spite of his excitement at the thought of being in the same town as Beatrice, he slept soundly. Man is but mortal, and after traveling as fast as is possible from London to Munich, it takes a great deal to spoil a night's rest. So in the -morning Carruthers arose refreshed and eager to begin the quest.

But how to begin it? He was not even sure that its object was in Munich. Because she had written down the name of a picture it did not follow she was near that work of art. She might only have paid Munich a flying visit—might now be miles and miles away. He grew very despondent as he realizad the slender, fragile nature of the clew which he had so impetuously taken up and followed. Nevertheless, he vowed ha Would not leave Munich ftntil he felt sure it did not harbor the fugitives.

Ho stepped through the swinging doors of his hotel and stood in the broad Maxi-millians-Strassa. He hesitated, uncertain what to do, which way to turn. So far as ho could see, his only chance of finding Beatrice was meeting her in the public streets his ohly plan was to walk about those streets until he met her. At any rate he would do nothing but this for the next few days. If unsuccessful he would then think whether he could apply to such persons as might be able to tell him What strangers were living in Munich.

He turned to the right, went across the Platz, and into the fair Ludwig- Strasse. He walked on with palaces on either hand until he came to the gate of victory. Preoccupied as Mr. Carruthers was, the number of magnificent buildings he passed greatly impressed him. However, he deferred his admiration until happier times.

A kind of superstition made him thint- it well to see the picture which had brought him so far. He inquired the way to the Old Pinakothek, and upon arriving there sought for and found the 'Madonna di Tempi." He stood for along time contemplating it, not because he so much admired it as in the hope that fate might bring-Beatrica to his side. She did not come, so be bade the "Madonna" adieu, and after having run quickly through the large rooms and cabinets in the hope, of encountering Beatrice, he left the building wishing that the living masterpiece he sought was as easy to find atf that of the dead artist

Keeping to what seemed the principal and most populous streets he found himself once more in* front of his hoteL He started off in an opposite direction, went down the broad Maximillians-Strasse. More palaces, more statues, but no Beatrice. At last he stood on the stone bridge which spans the shallow but rapid Isar. He stopped and looked at the curious artificial bed of smooth planks over which the river runs and then he looked down into the little triangular pleasure garden which lies between the two arms of the stream.

In the garden, on one of the seats, intently engaged with a book, sat Beatrice. Her little boy was playing near her. It needed not the sight of the boy to assure Carruthers be was not mistaken. Like all lovers, he told himself he would have known that graceful head, that perfect form at Isast a mile away. Yes, there was Beatrice! The

:'Madonna"

had not led him astray. Had

Carruthers been a Roman Catholic he might have shown his gratitude by the expenditure of pounds and pounds of wax candles.

He stood for some time watching Beatrice. Now that he had fouud her ha trembled at his own act. He trembled at the thought of what he had to say to her, what sho had tc say- to him. He comforted himself by the assurance that be had only sought her, hvokan tbroutrh her concealment, for the

Mike of giving1, or atl^ast offering, siifcbrhelp as hc could give. a After this he walked slowly dowi) gudeu and stood in front ol bar. rai* aJ her eyes and knew him. Her book fell to the ground. She sprang to her feet and uttered a little cry, a cry that sounded very sweet to Mr. Carruthers, as it-was unmistakably one of pleasure. At the unexpected appearance of the man she loved, for a moment there was no thought in her heart save that of joy. She stretched out her hands. ••Frank! Frank!" she cried. "Y}qft heife?1.'

I I

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Frank! Frank!" she cried. FOH heref" He took her hands in his and regardless of bystanders gazed into her gray eyes. For a moment he could not speak. Tlie sight of Beatrice, the touch of her hand sent the blood rushing through his veins. Days, weeks months, he had pictured this meeting, and now it had come to pass!

She Was fairsr than ever—fairer than ever! The pure classical features seemed even more perfect, the cletfr pale face more bsautirul, the dark gray eyes more wonderful than of old. And, as she had given that little cry of joy, something had leapt into her eyes which Carruthers h^id never before seen there, or never before seen so clearly and undisguisedly. The surprise of seeing him had swept away caution, and for the space of two seconds, Frank wbs able to read the very secret of her souL

No wonder he held her hands and gazed silently in her face. What had he to say— what could he say? The certainty that she loved him made his task no easier—the task of telling her that he knew her secret, or at least a great part of it—the task of asking her to confide in him and let him help her. So ho remained silent until she gently drew her hands from hi-.

Tho light had faded from Beatrice's face, She oho, after a moment of forgetfulnas3," was coming back to her own world- and its troublas. Her eyes dropped and hor I'acd clouded. "How did you find me?" she asked in troubled tones. "By a strange chance. I will tell you how someday." ,r "Tell me now."

lt.

Frank shook his head. "Not now," be said

4

Let it suffloe that

I hove found you." "But," said Beatrice with agitation, do others know—can others find me? If you learned it why not another?"

He saw the display of fear, and hasteued to reassure her. "No one save myself can learn it in the same way. Your, retreat iff saf0-" -5i tt** .*,i

She sighed her relief. Th^fe was an awkward pause. Frank was the, first to break it. 'tur ,.t

v*s"

"Beatrice," he laid, "I have come a long ^ay to see you. I have much to tay—you may have much to say to me. Can wo go to some place where we can talk?" "Ye3, we can go to my home." Beatrice called her boy, and Frank, glad of anything to break the awkwardness of the moment, greeted the little fellow and made friends with him to such purpose that he insisted upon Mr. Carruthers holding his chubby band and walking with him. "What a pity to cut that bright.bair!" said Frank to Beatrice. "It was more than pity—it was cruel, but it was cntil necessity," she said sadly.

Beatrice led the way to the house in which she lived. She walked with her head bent, and as one in deep thought. She could not make up hor mind whether to be glad or sorry ab Frank's coining. She saw, however, that, it put an end to her present mode of life. That it meant confession, revealing of everything. That it meant return to England and to such friends as would still be her friends. That if it meant shame and sorrow, it also meant safety and immunity from persecution. She began to regret that she had yielded to Sarah's wish to go to England and see Hervey. But that was not of much consequence. She felt sure that as soon as Carruthers learned her history her affairs would pass into hands more competent to deal with them than the hands of two weak women. So on toe whole her feelings were 'those of ralie f.

And yet for some, foriro© reasoti, Frank was the last person she would have chosen to whom to reveal her secrets. She shrank from having to show the man she loved that her life for years had been one of deceit. Now that the deceit had to be confessed to him, it seemed to lose all the innocent nature which she had hitherto flattered herself it possessed. In short, -if such a thing can be imagined, Beatrice felt, as Carruthers once felt her to be, as an idol would feel when just upon the point of being hurled down from its pedestaL

Carruthers, who had his own thoughts to trouble him, and to whom it seemed that any conventional remarks would at the present juncture be mockery, respected her meditations, so that, save for the lisping prattle of the boy, silence reigned, until Beatrice fcund herself in her room with Frank sitting near her. Jt struck her as so strange that he of all others should be here, that even she wondered if she! was dreaming. She shunned his eyes, fearing to read reproach in them. '-p'A "How are they all at home?" she asked. "How aro my' uncles, and dear old Jlazlewood Her eyes filled with tears. Her emotion did not escape Carruthers. "They are all well,'' he said. "I heard from Herbert a few days ago. He sent uio. your letter.'' "Will they trice. "Wih

ever forgive me?" said Bear" they ever speak to me again

"I hope so," said- Frank gravely. "They were, ot course, much vexed and upset.' [To bt Coniinued.}

Hunter's Laundry.

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