There came a day when Lady Atherton could no longer meet the demands
made upon her; the estate near Hanton was to be sold, and her husband
wished to purchase it.
"A little economy for one year," he said to his wife, "and we shall do
it easily. You will not mind being careful for one year, Marion?"
She told him, what was perfectly true, that she would deprive herself of
anything on earth for his sake. He laughed.
"There will not be much privation needed, for one who has spent three
thousand pounds in six months. I shall have to give my little wife some
lessons in economy."
It was hard, for on her own self she had not spent one shilling. Another
time she was greatly distressed what to say--her husband complained of
her dress.
"Marion," he said, "it seems absurd to say, but, my darling, you are
positively shabby--that is, for one in your position. How is it?"
She did not tell him that she could not purchase more dresses, or,
rather, would not until Madame Elise was paid. Her face flushed, and
Lord Atherton smiled.
"You need not carry economy too far," he said; "it is very good of you
to take so great an interest in me, Marion, but you must not go to these
extremes. You had five hundred pounds yesterday; go and get some pretty,
elegant dresses suitable for Lady Atherton."
She could not tell him that she had sent that all away, and had not a
shilling left. There were times when Marion, Lady Atherton, heiress of
Hanton, mistress of one of the finest fortunes in England, wife of one
of the richest men--when she hardly knew where to turn for money; the
poorest beggar in the street was more at ease.
In the meantime, Allan Lyster, by his successful trading on a woman's
secret, was leading a life of complete and perfect luxury. He spared no
expense; he gambled, betted, played at every game of chance; he was well
known at Tattersall's in all the green rooms; he played to perfection
the part of a fast man about town, while the woman he had pretended to
love was wearing her life away in mortification and suspense.
At last, what she had long foreseen came to pass. Allan wrote to her for
money when she was utterly unable to get it. She was compelled to borrow
it from Lord Ridsdale. He lent it to her with a smile, telling her at
the same time, with real gravity in his voice, that he hoped she was
keeping no secret from her husband.
So the time came when she could no longer keep pace with his
extravagance, when she was compelled to refuse his request. He had lost
some money in a bet over some horses. He told her that he must have it,
and she assured him that it was impossible. Then the blow fell. He wrote
to say that if the money were not sent him by Thursday he should at once
commence an action against her.
"The damages that I shall win," he wrote, "will be so large that I shall
not want to ask you for more."
She was terrified almost out of her senses. To many women it would have
occurred to sell or pledge their jewels, to change diamonds for paste.
She thought of none of these things. Lord Ridsdale had gone to Paris,
she could not ask him, and Lady Atherton was at her wits' end.
She learned, however, that she was too fearful, that he was trading on
her alarm, that he could not bring an action against her, because at the
time that promise had been given she was a ward and not of age. She
wrote and told him that his threat was in vain.
It was the answer to that question that drove her from home a fugitive,
that exiled her from all she loved, that drove her mad with terror.
He wrote to her and admitted that her argument was perfectly just, that
perhaps in strict legal bounds he could not maintain such an action;
but the shame and exposure for her, he told her, would be none the less.
"If you persist in your refusal," he wrote, "I shall go at once to Lord
Atherton. I will show him those letters, and ask him in justice to give
me some share of the fortune he has deprived me of. I shall read every
word to him, and tell him all that took place; he may judge between us."
The letter fell from her nerveless hands, and Marion, Lady Atherton,
fell on her knees with a cry of despair. She was powerless to help
herself, she could do nothing, she could get no more money; and even if
she could of what avail? If she sent this, in a few weeks or months at
the farthest, he would renew his demand, and she could not do more. The
sword must fall, as well now as in a year's time; besides, the suspense
was killing her. The long strain upon her nerves began to tell at last.
She was fast, losing her health and strength; she could not eat nor
sleep; she was as one beside herself; frightful dreams, dread that knew
no words, fear that could not be destroyed, pursued her. She grew so
pale, so thin, so nervous, that Lord Atherton was alarmed about her.
If she had loved her husband less her despair would not have been so
great. Sooner than he should read those ill-considered words--those
protestations of love that made her face flush with flame--sooner than
he should read those she would die any death. For it had come to that;
she looked for death to save her. She felt powerless in the hands of a
villain who would never cease to persecute her.
She sent no answer to the letter. What could she say? She made one or
two despairing efforts to get the money, found it impossible, then gave
herself up for lost.
She did not write, but there came another note from him saying that
unless he heard from her that the money was coming he would wait upon
her husband on Friday morning and tell him all.
There was no further respite for her--the sword had fallen--she could
not live and face it; she could not live knowing that her husband was to
read those words of her folly, that he was to know all the deceit, the
clandestine correspondence that weighed now so bear it.
"I shall never look in his face again," she said to herself. "I could
never bear that he should see me after he knows that."
She weighed it well in her mind. She looked at it in every way, but the
more she thought of it the more impossible it seemed. She could not
bring disgrace on her husband and live. She could not doom her only
child to sorrow and shame, yet live. She could not bear the ignominy of
the exposure. She, who had been so proud of her fair fame, of her
spotless name, her high reputation. It was not possible. She could not
bear it. Her hands trembled. All the strength seemed to leave her. She
fell half-fainting--moaning with white lips that she could not bear it
and live.
Must she die? Must she part with the sweet, warm life that filled her
veins? Must she seek death because she could no longer live?
No, she dare not.
"I cannot live and I dare not die," she moaned. "I am utterly wretched,
utterly hopeless and miserable. Life and death alike are full of terrors
for me."
What should she do? Through the long, burning hours, through the long,
dreary nights, she asked herself that question--What should she do?
Her husband, alarmed at her white face and altered manner, talked of
summoning a physician to her. Her friends advised change of air, but
there was no human help for her.
Then, when mind and brain alike were overdone, when the strained nerves
gave way, when the fever of fear and suspense rose to its height, she
thought of flight. That was the only recourse left to her--flight! Then
she would escape the terrors of death and the horror of life. Flight was
the only resource left to her. The poor, bewildered mind, groping so
darkly, fixed on this one idea. She would not kill herself. That would
deprive her of all hope in another world. She dare not live her present
life, but flight would save her.
People would only think she was mad for running away, and surely when
Allan Lyster saw what he had done he would relent and persecute her no
more.
She was not herself when she stole so quietly from home and went
disguised to the station. She was half delirious with fear and dread;
her brain whirled, her heart beat, every moment she dreaded to see Allan
Lyster pursuing her. Her only idea was to get away from him, safe in
some refuge where he could not find her.
She little dreamed that in the hurry of her flight she had dropped Allan
Lyster's letter--the letter in which he threatened to tell her
husband--the letter which drove her mad, and sent her from home. She had
intended to destroy it; she believed she had done so; but the fact was,
it had fallen from her hands on the floor, and she never thought of it
again. Her maid, thinking it might be of consequence, picked it up and
laid it on the mantelshelf. Only God knows what would have become of
Lady Atherton but for this oversight.
Her absence was not discovered until evening, when it was time to dress
for dinner; then the maid could not find her. No notice was taken of her
absence at first; they thought she had gone out and had been detained;
but when midnight arrived, and there was still no news of her, Lord
Atherton became alarmed. He went into her dressing-room, and there his
eyes fell upon the letter. He opened and read it, bewildered by its
contents. At first he did not understand it, then he began to see what
it meant.
Gradually the meaning grew clear to him. This villain was trading upon
some secret of poor Marion, and she in fear and trembling had fled. He
felt sure of it, and from that conviction he took his precautions.
He said nothing to the servants, except that Lady Atherton had gone away
for a few days and would not return just yet. "I shall find her," he
thought, "before the scandal gets known." Seeing their lord perfectly
cool and unconcerned, the servants made sure all was right. No one in
the wide world knew the true story of Lady Atherton's flight except her
husband.
"I will find her," he said to himself; "but before I even begin to look
for her I will settle my account with the sneaking villain known as
Allan Lyster."