The Lancaster Herald. (Lancaster, Tex.), Vol. 29, No. 23, Ed. 1 Friday, July 2, 1915 Page: 3 of 8
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THE LANCASTER HERALD
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and draw back from them. They com
▼let yon, James.”
"Now I can see why you have taken
op this fight against me. Yon—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 ^ne! 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 but the spirit of
manner that would have hurt you the .Matilde that had come to lodge in nfy
trorat lfw am mm ■■■ ■ ■■ T
CHAPTER XX—Continued.
0r —14—
"No, I do not forget, James. There
Pas but one way in which I could hope
to steal him away from you, and I
went about it deliberately, with my
dyes open. I came here to induce him
to run 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
hearing my story he elected to return
to the man who had destroyed his
Mother, I should have stepped aside
and offered no protest. But I would
have taken him away from you in the
>
worst. My sister was true to you. I
would hase been Just as true, and after
you had buffered the torments of hell,
H was my plan to reveal everything to
you. But you would have had your
punishment by that time. When you
were at the vefy end of your strength,
when you tremble' on the edge of ob-
livion, that I would have hunted you
out and laughed at you and told you
the truth.' But you would have had
yean of anguish—years, I say.”
1 ”1 have already had Tears of agony,
pray do not overlook that fact,” said
ha. "I suffered for twenty years. I
was at the edge of oblivion more than
once, if it te a pleasure for you to hear
me say it, Therese.” x
“It does not offset the pain that her
suffering brought to me. It does not
eountar-balance the unhappiness yon
gave to her boy, nor the stigma you
put Upon him. I am glad that you suf-
fered. It proves to me that you secret-
i ly considered yourself to be in the
wrong. You doubted yourself. You
were never sure, and yet yog crushed
the life out of her innocent, bleeding
(heart. You let her die without a word
to ahow that you—” *
**I was lost to the world for years,”
he said. "There were many years when
I 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 T” she
tried in sudden comprehension. >
"I must decline to answer that ques-
I
CHAPTER XXi.
m-
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gS'-'r-
Revenge Turned Bitter.
She gave him p curious, incredulous
smile, and then abruptly returned to
charge. "When my sister came
s, degraded, I was nine years of
but I was not so young that 1 did
not know that a dreadful thing had
to her. She was blighted
beyond all hope of recovery. It was to
me-—little me-—that she told her story
ever sad 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 her recital
and covered her eyes with her hands.
He waited for her to go on, sitting as
rigid as the image that faced him from
id. "Al
beyond the table’s ent
“Afterwards,
.1?
my father and my uncle made every ef-
fort to get the child away from you,
but he was hidden—you know how
carefully he was hidden so that she
might never find him. For ten years
they searched for him—and you. For
ton years she wrote to you, begging
you to let her have him, if only for a
little while at a time. She promised
to restore him to you, God bless 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,
she told me what it was that yon ac-
cused her of doing. She told me about
Guido Feverelll, her music-master. I
knew him, James. He had known her
l 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.
ST
mm
m
of love to her. He challenged, you.
Why did you refuse to light him?”
"Because She begged me not to kill
him. Did she tell you that?”
"Yes. Art that was not the real rea-
son. It wss because you were not
sure of your ground.”
"I deny that!” ^
It is enough that poor
out of her life. She
itil just before
jahe died. He was a noble gentleman.
;Be wrote but one letter to her after
'that wretched day in this house. I
have it here in this packet.”
Bhe drew a package of papers from
her bosom and laid It upon the table
before him. There were a half dosen
letters tied together with a piece of
white ribbon.
"But one letter from him,” she went
on. "I have brought It here for you to
read. But not now! There are other
letters and documents here for you to
They are from the grave.
that you shrink
T'TlT
amuse
treacherous body. I hated you for
myself and I loved you for Matilde.
She loved you to the end. She never
hated you. That was it The pure,
deathless love of Matilde 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 toe mo-
ments 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 wjth a question in your own.
Your soul was striving to reach the
soul of Matilde. Ah, all these months
I have known that you loved Matilde—
not me. Yon loved the Matilde that
Vfbs in me. You—”
“I have thought of her—always of
her—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. I 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 you
bad wronged her. But in spite of all
that you brought up her boy to be sac-
rificed as—”
"I—I—good God, am I to believe
you? If be should be my son!” he
cried, starting np, cold with dread.
"He la your son. He could be no
other maze’s son. 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. 1 have still more
to.say to you—more to confess. Here!
Take this package of letters. Read
them as you sit beside his bed—not
his deathbed, for I shall restore him
to health, never fear. If he were to
die, I should curse myself to the end
of time, for 1 and I alone would have
been the cause. Here are her letters
—and the one Feverelll wrote to her.
This Is her deathbed letter to you. And
this is a letter to her son and yours!
You may some day read it to him. And
herb—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 toe estate—and it is
not an inconsiderable amount, James.
He is independent of you. He need
ask nothing of you. 1 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
he never uttered so much as one word- Nand degrade him even more than I
could have done? Was it just to your
sister’s son that you should blight his
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 1 would be taking
him away from happiness in the shape
of love that be might bear for someone
else. I 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. Be would not do that to you.
James, in spite of the blow you struck
hlm.% He was loyal to Lydia and to
himself."
“And what did he think of you?” de-
manded Brood scornfully.
"If you had not come upon us here,
he would have known me for who l am
and he would have forgiven me. I had
asked him to go away with me. He re-
fused. Then I 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 say
that—there was nothing more in my
mind. Time would have straightened
everything out for him. He could have
had his Lydia, even though he went
away with-tae. Once away from here,
do you think that he would ever re-
turn? No! Even though he knew yon
to be his father, he would not forget
that he has never been your son. You
have hurt him since he was a babe.
Do you understand? I do not hate you
now. It is something to know that you
have worshiped her all these years.
You 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 alLjthe 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 you
are not entitled to this miserable, un-
happy love I have come to feel for~you
—my own love, not Matilde’s.”
"You—you are saying this so that I
may refrain from throwing 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 foot
The trap has caught me instead of you,
and I shall take the consequences, I
have lost—everything!"
"Yes, you have lost everything,” said
he steadily. *
“Yqu despise me?”
"I cannot ask you to stay here-
after this.”
"But I 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, *
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 knew
that you killed her and that she loved
ysit to-spita Of tlmjieato yon brongnt
to her. That is something. That—”
Brood dropped into toe chair and
burled hie face on his quivering arms.
In muffled tones came toe cry from his
souL "They've all said that, he is like
me. I have seen It at times, bat I would
not believe. I fought against It, reso-
lutely, madly, cruelly! Now it is too
late and I see! Lsee, I feel! Damn yon
—oh, damn you—you have driven me
to toe killing of my own son!”
She stood over him, silent for a long
time, her hand hovering above his
head... \
"He lenot 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 Matilde, for
now I know that he belongs to both of
you and not to her alone. Now, James,
yon may go down to him. He is not
conscious. He will not hear you pray-
ing at his bedside. He—”
A knock came at the door—a sharp,
imperative knock. It was repeated sev-
eral times before either of them could
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.
come to again and—well, it may be the
last time he’ll ever open his eyes. Yes,
it’s as bad as all that.”
"I’ll go—at once,” said Brood, his
face ashen. "You must revive him for
a few minutes, Hodder. There’s some-
thing I’ve got to say to him. He must
be able to hear and to understand me.
It is the most important thing in the
—” He choked up suddenly.
"You'll have to be careful, Jim. He’s
ready to collapse. Then it’s all •ff.”
"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
better 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 dozen times—"
“It has to do with his mother,” Brood
cried out "Come! I want you to hear
it, too, Hodder.”
“There Isn’t much time to lose, I’m
afraid,” began Hodder, shaking his
head. His gaze suddenly rested on
Mrs. Brood’s face. She was very erect,
and a smile such as he had never seen
before was on her lips—a smile that
puzzled and yet Inspired him with a
positive, undeniable feeling of encour-
agement!
"He is not going to die, Doctor Hod-
der,” she sp id quietly. Something
wen.t through his body that warmed it
curiously. He felt a thrill, as one who
is seized by a great overpowering ex-
citement.
She' preceded them into the hall.
Brood came last He closed the door
behind him after a swift glance about
the room that had been his most pri-
vate retreat for years.
He was never to set foot inside Its
walls again. In that single glance he
bade farewell to it forever. It was a
hated, unlovely spot He had spent an
age in it during those bitter morning
hours, an age of Imprisonment
On the landing below they came up-
on Lydia. She was seated on a win-
dow ledge, leaning wearily against
the casement She did not rise as they
approached, but watched them with
steady, smoldering eyes in which there
was no friendliness,,, no compassion.
They were her enemies, they had killed
the thing she loved.
Brood’s eyes met hers for an Instant
and then fell before the bitter look
they encountered. His shoulder*
you have said all that to me before,
Lydia."
"What is your Object in keeping me
away from him at such,a time as this,
Mrs. Brood?” demanded Lydia. "You
refuse to let me go in to him. Is it be-
cause you are afraid of what—1
"There are trying days ahead of us,
Lydia,” interrupted Yvonne. "We shall
have to face them together. I can
promise you this: Frederic will 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 my prayer, Lydia. I was not pray-
ing for Frederic, but for myself.”
Lydia started. "For yourself?
might have known you—”
"You hesitate? Perhaps it is just as
well.”
“1 want to say to you, Mrs. Brood,
that it is my purpose to remain in this
house as long as I can be—1
"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 farther and say that
you are commanded to stay here and
help me in the long fight that la ahead
of ha.”
"I—I thank you, Mrs. Brood," the
girl was surprised into saying.
Both of them turned quickly as the
door to Frederic’s room opened and
James Brood came out into the hall.
His face was drawn with pain and
anxiety, but the light of exaltation was
in his eyes.
"Come, Lydia,” he said softly, after
he had closed the door behind him.
"He knows me. He is conscious.
Hodder can’t understand it, hut he
seems to have suddenly grown
stronger. He—”
“Stronger?” cried Yvonne, the ring
of triumph in her voice. "1 knew!
could feel it coming—his strength—
even out here, James. Yes, go in nqw.
Lydia. You will see a strange sight,
ay dear. James Brood 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
in.”
"I grant you ten minutes, James,”
she said, with the aif of a dictator.
"After that 1 shall take my stand be-
side him and you will not be needed.”
She * struck her breast sharply with
her flinched hand. "His one and only
hope lies here, James. I am his sal-
vation. I am his strength. When you
come out of that room again Jt will
be to stay ont until I give the word
for you to re-enter. Go now and put
spirit into him. That to all that I ask
of yon,”
He stared for a moment and then
lowered his head. A moment later
Lydia followed him into toe room and
Yvonne was alone In the hall. Alone?
Rsajab-.*ah, ascending the stairs. He
ana rows a
hto knee.
"I forgot,” she said, looking down
upon him without a vestige of the
old dread in her eyes. "I have a friend,
after alL"
CHAPTER XXII.
The Closed Door.
The doctor blinked for 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
plain to be seen that be was very much
out of patience. "You’ve called In an-
other doctor and a priest and now I
hear that a 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 his side. "Is
he conscious? Does he know?"
"For God’s sake, Hodder, is there
any hope?” cried Brood.
"Ill 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 somewhere. 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 min-
utes ago, Mrs. Brood, and my assistant
is certain that he whispered Lydia
Desmond’s name. Sounded that way
to him, but, of course—”
“There! You see, James?” she cried,
whirling upon her husband.
"I think you’d better step In and see
him now, Jim,” said the doctor, sud-
denly becoming very gentle. "He may
"And What Did He Think of You?”
drooped as he passed close by her mo-
tionless figure and followed the doctor
down the hall to the bedrbom door. If
opened and closed an instant later and
he was with his son.
For a long time, Lydia’s somber, pit-
eous gaze hung upon the door through
which he had passed and which was
closed so cruelly against her, the one
who loved him best of all. At last she
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, her 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
more 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 sid^. For a
full minute, perhaps, the two regarded
each other without speaking.
"He is not going to dls, Lydia,” said
Yvonne gravely.
The girl started to her feet "Do you
think it to your prayer and not mine
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 the throne,”
said the other.
Lydia’s eyes grew dark with resent-
ment. "You could have prevented
all—’’
“B# good enough to remember that
CHAPTER XXin.
The Joy of June.
On a warm morning toward the
middle of the month of June Frederic
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 lounged comfortably, yet
weakly, In the invalid’s chair that had
been wheeled to the spot by the dog-
like Ranjab, and Bhe sat on a pile of
cushions at his feet, her back resting
against the wall. Looking at him, one
would not have thought that he had
passed through the valley of the
shadow of death dhd was but now
emerging in1o 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 garde n, always leaning on the
arm of his father or the faithful Hin-
du. Each succeeding day saw hto
strength and vitality increase and each
night he slept with the peace of a
care-free chihL
As for Lydia, she was radiant with
happiness. The long fight was over.
She had gone through the campaign
against death with loyal, unfaltering
courage; them 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 wlich she throve despite
the beggarly offerings that were laid
before her during those weeks of fam-
ine.
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—aa 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 d eta and trib-
ute; when the Strange defiance tout
held all of them at bay would dis-
appear and they could feel that 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 hor sweetheart’s re-
covery was due almost entirely to the
remarkable Influence exercised by this
woman at a time wben mortal agen-
cies appeared to be of no avail. Her
absolute certainty that aba had the
power to thw&r’ death, at least in
instance, had its effect, not only
the wounded man but on those w
attended him. Doctor Hodder and the
nurses were not slow to admit that
her magnificent courage, her almost'
scornful self-assurance, supplied them
with an incentive that otherwise might
never have got beyond the form of a
mere hope. There was something pos-.
itively startling in her serene convio-
tion that Frederic was not to die. N«
less a skeptic than the renowned
Docftor Hodder confided to Lydia and
her mother that he now believed In
the supernatural and never
would say “there la no God.” With
the dampness of death on the yo
man’s brow, a remarkable change
occurred even aa he watched for
last fleeting breath. It was as if
secret, unconquerable force had
denly Intervened to take the
matter out of nature’s hands. It
not in the books that ha should
well; It was against every rule of
ture that he should have survived
first day’s struggle. He was
for death and there was no alt
Then came the bewildering, mya
ing change. Life did not take its
pected flight; instead it Clung, flicks
tag but indestructible, to its clay
would not obey toe laws of
For days and days life bang by *
we are pleased to call a thread;
grea$ shears of death could not
the tiny thing that held
soul to earth. There was no
any of those days in which the
wildered scientist and his
did not proclaim that it would
last, and yet he gave the He to
Hodder had gone to James
the end of the third day, and
sweat of the haunted on hto brow 1
whispered hoarsely that the case
out of hisJiands! He was no
the doctor but an agent governed 1.
spirit that would not permit death
claim its own! And somehow
understood far better than the man
science.
The true story of the shooting
long been known to Lydia
mother. Brood confessed
to them. He assumed all of the
for what had transpired on that i
morning. He humbled himself
them, and when they shook
heads and turned their backs
him he was not surprised, for ho J
they were not convicting him of m
sault with a deadly firearm,
on the story of Theresa Uras told I
him to Frederic and the girl,
hto wife no injustice in the
Frederic laid hto hand upon the
brown head at his knee and vc
thought that was in hto mind.
"You are, wondering, as I
what to to become of Yvonne
day,” he said. “There most
end; and if it doesn’t come now
will it come? Tomorrow
is certain that trim to not. i
pany us. She has said so hei
father haa said so.
end of ttrifiga."
"Frederic,.! want you to
thing for me,” said Lydia,
"There was a time when I
have asked this of you, t
implore you to speak to y<
in her behalf. I love her,
I cannot help It Sh^aaks
any of us, she expects m
yet she loves all of us—y
She will never, by word or look,
a single plea for herself. I have •
her closely all these weeks,
was never an instant*when
vealed the slightest sign of an
She takes* It for granted that she 1
no place in our lives. In our
yes, but that is all. I think;
reconciled to what she considers !
fate and it has not entered her
to protest against it. Perhaps it
natural that she ^should feel that w
about it But It is—oh, Freddy,,it 1
terrible! If he would—would
bend a little toward her. If
"Listen, Lyddy, dear. I Awa’t T
lieve it’s altogether up to hi
is a barrier that we can’t see,:
do—both of them. My mother j
between them. You see, I’ve
know my father lately, dear,
a stranger to me any longer. P
what sort of a heart he’s
never got over loving my
he’ll never get over knowing *
Yvonne knows that she loved
the day she died. We know
was in Yvonne that attracted him
the first, and she knows. He’s
likely to forgive himself so easily,
didn’t play fajr with either of
that’s what.rm trying to get at.
don’t believe hf can forgive
any more than he can forgive Yv«
for thp thing she set about to do. You
see, Lyddy, she married him ’
lav*. She debased
though she can’t admit It
love her, too. She’s the most w«
derful woman in the world. She's
the finest instincts a wot
possessed. But she did 4h
to the man she hated with all her
and—well, there you are. Ha can’t
get that, you know—a
Leaving me out of the
gether—and you, too—that* still
•o:
trayed -her
him for herself now, and—that’s
hurts both of them. It hurts
they both know that ha still
my mother.”
"I’m not so rare of that,1
noun cad Lydia. "Ha loves your
erto memory, ha loves her U
wrong he did her. but—well, I
sea how ha can heto loving Y
spite of everything. She—”
"Ah, but you have it from
ha loved my mother even v
was in his arms, because. In a
represented the love that hi
died. Now all that to a thin
past She to herself, she to not
He loved Matilde all the
«xo
■,&
■
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Tufts, Minnie Wetmore. The Lancaster Herald. (Lancaster, Tex.), Vol. 29, No. 23, Ed. 1 Friday, July 2, 1915, newspaper, July 2, 1915; Lancaster, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth542654/m1/3/: accessed June 23, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; crediting Lancaster Genealogical Society.