FULL MEASURE, PRESSED DOWN AND RUNNING OVER.
Joan staggered back from the window, gasping in her terror. Her husband was mad
with jealousy and hate and every other passion. She could see now that he had
always been more or less mad, and that his frantic love for herself was but a
form of insanity, which during the long months of their separation had deepened
and widened until it obtained a complete mastery over his mind. Then by an evil
fortune he had witnessed the piteous and passionate scene between Henry and
herself, or some part of it, and at the sight the last barriers of his reason
broke down, and he became nothing but an evil beast filled with the lust of
revenge and secret murder. Now he had gone to shoot down his rival in cold
blood; and this was the end of her scheming and self-sacrifice that she had
given herself to a lunatic and her lover to a bloody death!
So awful was the thought that for a while Joan felt as though her own brain
must yield beneath it. Then of a sudden the desperate nature of the emergency
came home to her, and her mind cleared. Henry was still unharmed, and perhaps
he might be saved. Oh! if only she could escape from this prison, surely it
would be possible for her to save him, in this way or in that. But how? If she
could find any one about she might send to warn him and to obtain help; but
this she knew was not likely, for nobody lived at Moor Farm except its master,
and by now the labourers would have gone to their homes in the valley, a mile
away. Well, once out of the house she might run to meet him herself? No, for
then possibly she would be too late. Besides, there were at least three ways by
which Henry could walk from Bradmouth by the cliff road, by the fen path, or
straight across the heath; and all these separate routes converged at a spot
beneath the wall of the old Abbey known as the Cross-Roads. That was why Samuel
had chosen this place for his deed of blood: as he had told her, he knew that
if he came at all his victim must pass within a few paces of a certain portion
of the ruined churchyard fence.
What, then, could be done? Joan flung herself upon the bed and thought for a
while, and as she lay thus a dreadful inspiration came into her mind.
If she could get free it would be easy for her to personate Henry. There upon
the pegs hung a man’s coat and a hat, not unlike those which he was
wearing that day. They were much of a height, her hair was short, and she could
copy the limp in his gait. Who then would know them apart, in the uncertain
glimmer of the night? Surely not the maddened creature crouching behind some
bush that he might satisfy his hate in blood. But so, if things went well, and
if she did not chance to meet Henry in time to save him, as she hoped to do,
she herself must die within an hour, or at the best run the risk of death! What
of it? At least he would escape, for, whether or not her husband discovered his
error, after all was over, she was sure that one murder would satiate his
vengeance. Also would it not be better to die than to live the life that lay
before her? Would it not even be sweet to die, if thereby she could preserve
the man she loved more than herself a thousand times? She had made many a
sacrifice for him; and this, the last, would be the lightest of them, for then
he would learn how true she was to him, and always think of her with
tenderness, and long to greet her beyond the nothingness of death. Besides, it
might not come to this. Providence might interpose to rescue her and him. She
might see him in time coming by the cliff road, or she might find her husband
and turn him from his purpose.
Oh! her mind was mazed with terror for Henry, and torn by perplexities as to
how she best might save his life. Well, there was no more leisure to search out
a better plan; if she would act, it must be at once. Springing from the bed,
she ran to the window, and throwing it wide, screamed for help. Her cries
echoed through the silent air, but the only answer to them was the baying of
the dog. There were matches on the mantelpiece, she had seen them; and, groping
in the dark, she found the box and lit the candles. Then she tried the door; it
was locked on the outside, and she could not stir it. Next she examined the
window place, against which the ladder that Rock had set there was still
standing. It was secured by three iron bars let into the brickwork at the top
and screwed to the oaken sill at the bottom.
Scrutinising these bars closely, she saw that, although her husband had not
been able to wrench them away, he had loosened the centre one, for in the
course of many years the rust of the iron mixing with the tannin in the oak had
widened the screw holes, so that the water, settling in them, had rotted that
portion of the sill. Could she but force out this bar she would be able to
squeeze her body through the gap and to set her feet upon the ladder.
There was a fireplace in the room, and, resting on the dogs in front of it, lay
a heavy old-fashioned poker. Seizing it, she ran to the window and struck the
bottom of the centre bar again and again with all her strength. The screws
began to give. Now they were half-way out of the decaying woodwork, but she
could force them no farther with blows. For a moment Joan seemed to be baffled,
then she took refuge in a new expedient. Thrusting the poker outside of the bar
to the right, and the end of it inside that which she was seeking to dislodge,
she obtained a powerful leverage and pulled in jerks. At the third jerk her
hand came suddenly in contact with the sharp angle of the brickwork, that
rasped the skin from the back of it; the screws gave way, and the bar, slipping
from the hole in which its top end was set, fell clattering down the ladder.
Now the road was open, and it remained only for her to dress herself to the
part. Half crying with the pain of her hurt and bleeding hand, quickly Joan put
on the hat and overcoat, remembering even then that they were the same which
Rock had worn when he came to see her in London, and, going to the window, she
struggled through the two remaining bars on to the ladder. Reaching the ground,
she ran through the garden to the heathland, for she feared lest the surviving
dog should espy and attack her. But no dog appeared: perhaps the corpse of its
brother that still lay by the gate kept it away.
Now she was upon the heathland and heading straight for the ruins of
Ramborough, which lay at a distance of about three-quarters of a mile from the
house. The night was fine and the air soft, but floating clouds now and again
obscured the face of the half-moon, that lay low in the sky, causing great
shadows to strike suddenly across the moor. Her way ran past the meres, where
the wind whispered drearily amongst the growing reeds and the nesting wild-fowl
called to each other across the water. There was a great loneliness about the
place; no living creature was to be seen; and, at the moment, this feeling of
solitude weighed more heavily upon her numbed heart than the sense of the death
that she was courting. The world was still with her, and its moods and
accidents affected her as they had always done; but the possibilities of that
other unrisen world upon whose brink she stood, and the fear of it, moved her
but little, and she scarcely thought of what or where she might or might not be
within an hour. Those terrors were to come.
She was past the meres, and standing on a ridge of ground that lies between
them and the cliff. Before her, when the moon shone out, she could see the
glimmer of the ocean, the white ribbon of the road, and the ruins of Ramborough
showing distinctly against the delicate beauty of the twilight summer sky. On
she went, scanning the heath and the cliff with eager eyes, in the hope that
she might discover the man she sought. It was in vain; the place was empty and
desolate, a home of solitude.
At length she stood upon the border of the cliff road, and the Abbey was in a
line with her some two hundred yards to the right. Here she paused awhile,
staring into the shadows and listening earnestly. But there was nothing to be
seen except the varying outlines of the clouds, and nothing to be heard save
the murmur of the sea, the stirring of the wind among the grasses, and now and
again the cry of some gull seeking its food by night.
Now it was, as she stood thus, that a great fear of death took her, and it
seemed as though all her past life went before her eyes in pictures, full,
every one of them, of exact and bewildering detail. For the most part these
pictures were not pleasant, yet it chilled her to remember that the series
might so soon be ended. At the least they were human and comprehensible,
whereas what lay beyond might be inhuman and above her understanding. Also it
came home to her that she was not fit to die: until her child was taken from
her, she had never turned much to religion, and of late she had thought more of
her own cruel misfortunes and of her lost lover than of her spiritual
responsibilities, or the future welfare of her soul.
She was minded to fly; she had escaped from her prison, and no law could force
her to live with a madman. Why should she not go back to Monk’s Lodge, or
to London, to seek a new existence for herself, leaving these troubles behind
her? After all, she was young and beautiful, and it was sweet to live; and now
that she was near to it the death which once she had so passionately desired
seemed a grim, unfriendly thing.
But then there was Henry. He was lost to her, indeed, and the husband of
another woman; yet, if she deserted him now, what would become of him? His
career was before him a long and happy career and it was pitiable to think that
within some few minutes he might be lying in the grass murdered for her sake by
a wretched lunatic. And yet, if she offered herself up for him, what must be
the end of it? It would be that after a period of shock and disturbance his
life would fall back into its natural courses, and, surrounded by the love of
wife and children, he would forget her, or, at the best, remember her at times
with a vague, affectionate regret. No man could spend his days in mourning
continually over a passionate and inconvenient woman, who had brought him much
sorrow and anxiety, even though in the end she chanced to have given him the
best proof possible of her affection, by laying down her life for his.
Well, so let it be. Afraid or not afraid, she would offer what she had, and the
gift must be valued according to its worth in the eyes of him to whom it was
given. Existence was a tangle which she had been quite unable to loose, and
now, although her dread was deep, she was willing that Death should cut its
knot; for here she had no hope, and, unless it pleased fate that it should be
otherwise, to Death she would consign herself.
All these thoughts, and many others, passed through her mind in that brief
minute, while, tossed between love and terror, Joan stood to search the
landscape and recover her breath. Then, with one last glance over the moorland,
she stepped on to the road and began to walk slowly towards the Abbey. Fifty
yards away the three paths met, but the ground lay so that to reach the
Cross-Roads, their junction, and to see even a little distance along the other
two of them, she must pass the corner of the broken churchyard wall. Dared she
do it, knowing that perchance there her death awaited her? Coward that she was,
while she lingered Henry might be murdered! Even now, perhaps this very
instant, he was passing to his doom by one of the routes which she could not
see.
She paused a moment, looking up the main road in the hope that she might catch
sight of Henry advancing down it. But she could perceive no one; an utter
loneliness brooded on the place. Moreover, the moon at this moment was obscured
by a passing cloud. For aught she knew, the deed was already done only then she
would have heard the shot or perhaps Henry had driven to Rosham, or had gone by
the beach, or the fit of homicidal mania had passed from her husband’s
mind. Should she go on, or wait there, or run away? No, she must reach the
Cross-Roads: she would not run; she would play the hand out.
Of a sudden a strange excitement or exaltation of mind took possession of her;
her nerves tingled, and the blood drummed in her ears. She felt like some
desperate gambler staking his wealth and reputation on a throw, and tasted of
the gambler’s joy. For a moment, under the influence of this new mood,
the uncertainty of her fate became delightful to her, and she smiled to think
that few have played such a game as this, of which the issues were the
salvation of her lover and the hazard of her mortal breath.
Now she began to act her part, walking forward with a limp like Henry’s,
till she was opposite to and some five yards away from the angle of the
churchyard wall. Here a swift change came over her; the false excitement passed
away, and again she grew mortally afraid. She could not do it! The Cross-Roads
were now not twenty paces from her, and once there she might see him and save
him. But never could she walk past that wall, knowing that behind it a murderer
might be lurking, that every stone and bush and tuft of grass might hide him
who would send her to a violent and cruel death. It was very well to make these
heroic resolutions at a distance, but when the spot and moment of their
execution were at hand ah! then the thing was different! She prayed God that
Henry had escaped, or might escape, but she could not take this way to preserve
him. Her mind was willing, but the poor flesh recoiled from it. She would call
aloud to her husband, and reveal herself to him if he were there. No, for then
he would guess her mission, render her helpless in this way or that what chance
had she against a madman? and afterwards do the deed. So it came to this: she
must go back and wait, upon the chance of meeting Henry on the cliff road, for
forward she dared not go.
Already she had turned to fly, when her ear caught a sound in the intense
silence such a sound as might have been made by some beast of prey dragging
itself stealthily towards its victim. Instantly Joan became paralysed; the
extremity of terror deprived her of all use of her limbs or voice, and so she
stood with her back towards the wall. Now there was a new sound, as of
something rising quickly through deep grass or brushwood, and then she heard
the dull noise of the hammer of a gun falling upon an uncapped nipple. In a
flash she interpreted its meaning: her husband had forgotten to reload that
barrel with which he shot the dog! There was still a chance of life for her,
and in this hope Joan’s vital powers returned. Uttering a great cry, she
swung round upon her heel so swiftly that the hat fell from her head, and the
moonlight passing from the curtain of a cloud, shone upon her ashy face. As she
turned, her eyes fell upon another face, the face of a devil of Samuel Rock. He
was standing behind the wall, that reached to his breast, and the gun in his
hand was levelled at her. A tongue of flame shot out, and, in the glare of it,
it seemed to her that his countenance of hellish hate had changed its aspect to
one of agony. Then Joan became aware of a dull shock at her breast, and down
she sank senseless on the roadway.
Joan was right. Perceiving her from the Cross-Roads knoll, his place of
outlook, whence, although himself invisible, he commanded a view of the three
paths, Rock, deceived by her disguise and assumed lameness, into the belief
that his wife was Henry advancing by the cliff road, had crept towards her
under shelter of the wall to kill her as she stood. But in that last moment he
learned his error too late! Yes, before the deed was done he tasted the agony
of knowing that he was wreaking murder upon the woman he desired, and not upon
the man she loved. Too late! Already his finger had contracted on the trigger,
and the swift springs were at their work. He tried to throw up the gun, but as
the muzzle stirred, the charge left it to bury itself in the bosom of his wife.
Casting down the gun, he sprang over the wall and ran to her. She was lying on
her back, dead as he thought, with opened eyes and arms thrown wide. Once he
looked, then with yells of horror the madman bounded from her side and rushed
away, he knew not whither.
When Henry parted with Joan in the Monk’s Lodge summer-house that
morning, anger and bitter resentment were uppermost in his mind, directed first
against his father-in-law, and next against his family, more particularly his
mother. He had been trapped and deluded, and now, alas! it was too late to
right the wrong. Indeed, so far as his wife was concerned, he could not even
speak of it. Joan spoke truly when she said that Emma must never hear of these
iniquities, or learn that both the name she had borne and the husband whom she
loved had been filched from another woman. Poor girl! at least she was
innocent; it must be his duty to protect her from the consequences of the guilt
of others, and even from a knowledge of it.
But Levinger, her father, was not innocent, and towards him he was under no
such obligation. Therefore, sick or well, he would pour out his wrath upon him,
and to his face would call him the knave and liar that he was.
But it was not fated that in this world Mr. Levinger should ever listen to the
reproaches of his son-in-law. When Henry reached the house he was informed that
the sick man had fallen into a restless sleep, from which he must not be
disturbed. Till nine o’clock that sleep endured, while Henry waited with
such patience as he could command; then suddenly there was a cry and a stir,
and the news was brought to him that, without the slightest warning or
premonition of immediate danger, Mr. Levinger had passed from sleep into death.
Sobered and calmed by the shock of such tidings, Henry gave those orders which
were necessary, and then started for home, where he must break the fact of her
father’s death to Emma. He had arranged to return to Bradmouth by the
last train; but it was already gone, so he drove thither in the dog-cart that
went to advise Dr. Childs and others of what had happened, and thence set out
to walk to Rosham half an hour or so later than he had intended. He might have
hired a cart and driven, but being the bearer of this heavy news, naturally
enough he had no wish to hurry; moreover he was glad of the space of quiet that
a lonely walk by night afforded him, for he had much to think of and to grieve
over. It was, he felt, a good thing that the old man should have died before he
spoke with him; for though certainly he would have done it, there was little
use in reproaching him with falsehoods and treachery the results of which could
not now be remedied.
Poor Joan! Hers was indeed a hard lot harder even than his own! It was a year
this day, he remembered, since first he had met her yonder by the ruins of
Ramborough Abbey. Who could know all that she had suffered during this eventful
year, or measure what was left for her to suffer in the time to come? Alas! he
could see no escape for her; she had entered on an unnatural marriage, but
still it was a marriage, and she must abide by her bargain, from which nothing
could free her except the death of her husband or of herself. And this she had
done for his sake, to safeguard him: ah! there was the bitterest part of it.
While Henry walked on, chewing the cud of these unhappy reflections, suddenly
from the direction of Ramborough Abbey, that was a quarter of a mile or more
away, there floated to his ear the sound of a single cry far off, indeed, but
strangely piercing, followed almost instantly by the report of a gun loaded
with black powder. He halted and listened, trying to persuade himself that the
cry was that of some curlew which a poacher had shot out of season; only to
abandon the theory so soon as he conceived it, for something in his heart told
him that this scream was uttered by mortal lips by the lips of a woman in
despair or agony. A few seconds passed, and he heard other sounds, those of
short, sharp yells uttered in quick succession, but of so inhuman a note that
he was unable to decide if they proceeded from a man or from some wounded
animal.
He started forward at a run to solve the mystery, and as he went the yells grew
louder and came nearer. Presently he halted, for there, from over the crest of
a little rise in the road, and not fifteen paces away, appeared the figure of a
man running with extraordinary swiftness. His hat had fallen from him, his long
hair seemed to stand up upon his head, his eyes stared wide in terror and were
ablaze with the fire of madness, his face was contorted and ashy white, and
from his open mouth issued hideous and unearthly sounds. So shocking was his
aspect in the moonlight that Henry sprang to one side and bethought him of the
tale of the Ramborough goblin. Now the man was level with him, and as he went
by he turned his head to look at him, and Henry knew the face for that of
Samuel Rock.
“Dead!” shrieked the madman, wringing his hands— “dead,
_dead!_” and he was gone.
Henry gasped, for his heart grew cold with fear. Joan had left him to join her
husband; and now, what had happened? That cry, the gunshot, and the sight that
he had seen, all seemed to tell of suicide or murder. No, no, he would not
believe it! On he went again, till presently he saw a lad running towards him
who called to him to stop.
“Who are you?” he gasped, “and what is the matter here?”
“I’m Willie Hood, and that’s just what I should like to know,
Sir Henry,” was the answer, “more especial as not five minutes
since I thought that I saw you walking up to the Abbey yonder.”
“You saw _me_ walking there! Rubbish! I have just come from
Bradmouth. Did you see that man, Rock, run by?”
“Yes, I see’d him fast enough. I should say by the looks of him
that he has been doing murder and gone mad. Half an hour ago, before you came
along, or begging your pardon, some one as limped like you, he had a gun in his
hand, but that’s gone now.”
“Look here, young man,” said Henry, as they went forward,
“what are you doing here, that you come to see all these things?”
“Well, sir, to tell the truth, I was driving my donkeys to feed on
Rock’s land, and when I saw him coming along with a gun I hid in the
bracken; for we had words about my taking his feed this very morning, and he
swore then that if he caught me at it again he’d shoot me and the dickies
too; so I lay pretty close till I saw the other man go by and heard the shriek
and the shot.”
[Illustration: ]
‘It is Joan Haste.’
“Come along, for Heaven’s sake!” said Henry: “that
devil must have killed some one.”
Now they were near to the Abbey wall, and Willie, catching his companion by the
arm, pointed to a dark shape which lay in the white dust of the roadway, and in
a terrified whisper said, “Look there! what’s that?”
Henry dashed forward and knelt down beside the shape, peering at its face. Then
of a sudden he groaned aloud and said, “It is Joan Haste, and he has shot
her!”
“Look at her breast!” whispered Willie, peeping over his shoulder.
“I told her how it would be. It was I who found you both a year ago just
here and looking like that, and now you see we have all come together again. I
told her it was a bad beginning, and would come to a bad end.”
“Be silent, and help me to lift her,” said Henry in a hollow voice;
“perhaps she still lives.”
Then together they raised her, and at that moment Joan opened her eyes.
“Listen, you!” Henry said: “she is alive. Now run as you
never ran before, to Dr. Childs at Bradmouth, to the police, and anybody else
you can think of. Tell them what has happened, and bid them come here as fast
as horses can bring them. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then go.”
Willie sprang forward like an arrow, and presently the sound of his footsteps
beating on the road grew faint and faded away.
“Oh! Joan, Joan, my darling,” Henry whispered as he leant over her,
pressing her cold hands. “Cannot you speak to me, Joan?”
At the sound of his voice the great empty eyes began to grow intelligent, and
the pale lips to move, faintly at first, then more strongly.
“Is that you, Henry?” she said in a whisper: “I cannot
see.”
“Yes. How did you come thus?”
“He was going to murder you. I—I passed myself off for you—at
least, I tried to—but grew afraid, and was running away when
he—shot me.”
“Oh! my God! my God!” groaned Henry: “to think that such a
thing should have been allowed to be!”
“It is best,” she answered, with a faint smile; “and I do not
suffer—much.”
Then he knelt down beside her and held her in his arms, as once on a bygone day
she had held him. The thought seemed to strike her, for she said:—
“A year ago to-night; do you remember? Oh! Henry, if I have sinned, it
has been paid back to me to the uttermost. Surely there can be nothing more to
suffer. And I am happy because—I think that you will love me better dead
than ever you did alive. ‘The way of transgressors —the way
of——’”and she ceased, exhausted.
“I shall love you now, and then, and always—that I swear before
God,” he answered. “Forgive me, Joan, that I should ever have
doubted you even for a moment. I was deceived, and did not understand
you.”
Again she smiled, and said, “Then I have done well to die, for in death I
find my victories—the only ones. But you must love the child
also—our child—Henry, since we shall wait for you together in the
place—of peace.”
A while went by, and she spoke again, but not of herself or him:—
“I have left Mrs. Bird in London—some money. When Mr. Levinger is
dead—there will be a good deal; see that—she gets it, for they were
kind to me. And, Henry, try to shield my husband—for I have sinned
against him—in hating him so much. Also tell your wife nothing—or
you will make her wretched—as I have been.”
“Yes,” he answered, “and your father is dead; he died some
hours ago.”
After this Joan closed her eyes, and, bleeding inwardly from her pierced lungs,
grew so cold and pulseless that Henry thought she must be gone. But it was not
so, for when half an hour or more had passed she spoke, with a great effort,
and in so low a whisper that he could scarcely hear her words, though his ear
was at her mouth.
“Pray God to show me mercy, Henry—pray now and always. Oh, one hour
of love—and life and soul to pay!” she gasped, word by word. Then
the change came upon her face, and she added in a stronger voice, “Kiss
me: I am dying!”
So he pressed his lips on hers; and presently, in the midst of the great
silence, Joan Haste’s last sobbing breath beat upon them in a sigh, and
the agony was over.
Two hours later Henry arrived at Rosham, to find his mother and Mr. and Mrs.
Milward waiting to receive him.
“My dear Henry, where have you been?” said Lady Graves. “It
is twelve o’clock, and we were beginning to fear that something had gone
wrong at Monk’s Lodge.”
“Or that you had met with another accident, dear,” put in Ellen.
“But I haven’t given you a kiss yet, to welcome you home. Why, how
pale you look! and what is the matter with your coat?”
“Where is Emma?” he asked, waving her back.
“She was so dreadfully tired, dear,” said Lady Graves, “that
I insisted upon her going to bed. But has anything happened, Henry?”
“Yes, a great deal. Mr. Levinger is dead: he died in his sleep this
evening.”
Lady Graves sank back shocked; and Ellen exclaimed, “How dreadfully sad!
However, his health was very bad, poor man, so it is something of a release.
Also, though you won’t care to think of such things now, there will be
advantages for Emma——”
“Be silent, Ellen. I have something more to tell you. Joan Haste, or
rather Joan Rock, is dead also.”
“Dead!” they both exclaimed.
“Yes, dead, or, to be more accurate, murdered.”
“Who murdered her?” asked Milward.
“Her husband. I was walking back from Bradmouth, and found her dying in
the road. But there is no need to tell you the story now—you will hear
plenty of it; and I have something else to say. Do you mind leaving the room
for a moment, Mr. Milward? I wish to speak to my mother and my sister.”
“Edward is my husband, Henry, and a member of the family.”
“No doubt, Ellen, but I do not desire that he should hear what I have to
say. If you feel strongly about the matter I will go into the library with my
mother.”
“Oh! pray don’t trouble about me,” answered Edward; “I
am accustomed to this sort of thing here, and I shall only be too glad to smoke
a cigar in the hall, if Sir Henry does not object”; and he left the room,
an example which Ellen did not follow.
“Now that we are quite alone, Henry, perhaps you will condescend to
unbosom yourself,” she said.
“Certainly, Ellen. I have told you that this unhappy woman has been
murdered. She died in my arms”—and he glanced at his
coat—“now I will tell you why and how. She was shot down by her
husband, who mistook her for me, ‘whom he meant to murder. She discovered
his plan and personated me, dying in my stead. I do not wish to reproach either
of you; the thing is too fearful for reproaches, and that account you can
settle with your own consciences, as I must settle mine. But you worked so,
both of you, that, loving me as she did, and feeling that she would have no
strength to put me away otherwise, she gave herself in marriage to a man she
hated, to the madman who to-night has slaughtered her in his blind jealousy,
meaning to slaughter me. Do you know who this woman was, mother? She was Mr.
Levinger’s legitimate daughter: it is Emma who is illegitimate; but she
died begging me to keep the secret from my wife, and if you are wise you will
respect her wish, as I shall. I have nothing more to say. Things have gone
amiss between us, whoever is to blame; and now her life is lost, and mine is
ruined.”
“Oh! this is terrible, terrible!” said Lady Graves. “God
knows that, whatever I have done, I acted for what I believed to be the
best.”
“Yes, mother,” said Ellen boldly, “and not only for what you
believed to be the best, but for what is the best. This unfortunate girl is
dead, it seems, not through any deed of ours, but by the decrees of Providence.
Henry says that his life is ruined; but do not grieve, mother,—he is not
himself, and he will think very differently in six months’ time. Also he
is responsible for this tragedy and no one else, since it springs from his own
sin. ‘_Les désirs accomplis,_’—you know the
saying. Well, he has accomplished his desire; he sowed the seed, and he must
reap the fruit and harvest it as best he may.
“And now, with your permission, Henry, I will order the carriage. I
suppose that there will be policemen and reporters here presently, and you can
understand that just at this moment, with the elections coming on, Edward and I
do not wish to be mixed up in a most painful scandal.”
FINIS.
PRINTED FROM AMERICAN PLATES
BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE, LONDON
July, 1895.