The Argosy — page 289: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

270 The Missing Rubies. CHA P.DER s XAViL A FRIEND IN NEED. I’rrpAy and Saturday went by, and Beatrice was still the languid, patient invalid. The Miltons’ kindness was unwearied. MHarriet took her out for a country drive ; but her enjoyment in nature was almost gone. She thought of bright hours spent under leaf-laden boughs—of pleasant rambles across the short sweet grass—when Godwin Earle was by her side. He was so near and yet so far; so loving and yet so estranged. ‘The silence of life, more pathetic than death’s”’ had come between these two ; and they were always longing for the sound of each other’s voices, always dreaming of old tender words, that echoed in their ears. Every day seemed as long as a week used to be; yet days went and came, and did not bring them together. On Sunday morning Beatrice listened to the jangling of many bells, and wondered when she should have heart and strength to go to church again. MHarriet kissed the girl, and went off with her husband and her prayer-book in rather a dismal mood. ‘She does not seem to get much better, Richard,” she said, as they walked towards St. Peter’s church. ‘“‘I don’t like this long- continued patience of hers. She is merely the ghost of the bright girl who was always complaining of my slowness and dulness ! You sometimes say that I am too brisk for you, but I was never brisk enough for Beatrice. And that poor Godwin, too!” “You may well say oor Godwin,” replied Richard Milton, dole- fully. ‘*The sight of his melancholy face in the office takes all the sweetness out of my life. As to Corder, he is determined that Earle’s name shall be cleared somehow. I don’t know what steps he is taking, but he will not rest. It seems hard that people who have such a strong wish to make others happy should be powerless. Earle is possessed with a morbid spirit, I believe. Even if Corder advances the three thousand for the missing necklace, Godwin will still feel himself a suspected and dishonoured man.” “Who suspects him?” cried Harriet, impatiently. ‘‘ Not Mr. Corder—nor you and I. Certainly not Beatrice. ‘Then why does he make us all miserable because of the suspicions of those silly old women at Fairbridge, and the ravings of a violent old man? Why not be happy, in spite of those who don’t believe in him? If I were in his place, I would never let the people who did not love me have a stronger influence than those that did! It is terribly absurd.” “Tf you were Godwin, you would feel as Godwin feels,” Richard Milton answered. ‘‘ He is crushed under the weight of undeserved misfortunes ; he has lost heart, and begins to think that he cannot fight against fate. That old coffee-planter’s abominable words have CORnNICEOOOKS (E©)