“Take it—take it—nobody knows. Everybody knows what kind of a man he’s been ever since, though. He came home that night at dusk. The baby was asleep in its crib and the servant girl was watching it. She told Allan that Mrs. Burnley had gone to the harbour with her cousin for a good-bye walk and would be back at ten. Allan waited for her easily enough—he never doubted her—but she didn’t come back. She had never intended to come back. In the morning The Lady of Winds was gone—had sailed out of the harbour at dark the night before. Beatrice had gone on board with him—that was all anybody knew. Allan Burnley said nothing, beyond forbidding her name ever to be mentioned in his hearing again. But The Lady of Winds was lost with all on board off Hatteras and that was the end of that elopement, and the end of Beatrice with her beauty and her laughter and her Ace of Hearts.”
“But not the end of the shame and wretchedness she brought to her home,” said Caroline shrewishly. “I’d tar and feather such a woman.”
“Nonsense—if a man can’t look after his wife—if he blinds his own eyes— Mercy on us, child, what is the matter?”
For Emily was standing up, holding out her hands as if pushing some loathly thing from her.
“I don’t believe it,” she cried, in a high, unnatural voice. “I don’t believe Ilse’s mother did that. She didn’t—she couldn’t have—not Ilse’s mother.”
“Catch her, Caroline!” cried Aunt Nancy.
But Emily, though the back parlour had whirled about her for a second, had recovered herself.
“Don’t touch me!” she cried passionately. “Don’t touch me! You—you—you liked hearing that story!”
She rushed out of the room. Aunt Nancy looked ashamed for a moment. For the first time it occurred to her that her scandal-loving old tongue had done a black thing. Then she shrugged her shoulders.
