Is there anything more shameful than speculation in flesh and
blood--the heart and life of a child?--he was so much older than she! Life
to her was an hourly pain--you see she was wild with indignation and
shame, and alive with a kind of gratitude and reaction when she married
him. And her life? Maternity was to her an agony such as comes to few
women who suffer and live. If her child--her beautiful, noble child--had
lived, she would, perhaps, one day have claimed the property for its
sake. This child was her second love and it died--it died."
She drew from her breast a miniature. He reached out and, first
hesitating, she presently gave it into his hand. It was warm--it had lain
on her bosom. His hand, generally so steady, trembled. He raised the
miniature to his own lips. She reached out her hand, flushing greatly.
"Oh, please, you must not!" she said.
"Go on, tell me all," he urged, but still held the miniature in his hand
for a moment.
"There is little more to tell. He played a part. She came to know how
coarse and brutal he was, how utterly depraved.
"At last he went away to Africa--that was three years ago. Word came that
he was drowned off the coast of Madagascar, but there is nothing sure, and
the woman would not believe that he was dead unless she saw him so or some
one she could trust had seen him buried.
Pages:
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55