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 perfectly1 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 distressed2 what to say—her husband complained of her dress.
"Marion," he said, "it seems absurd to say, but, my darling, you are positively3 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 mortification4 and suspense5.
At last, what she had long foreseen came to pass. Allan wrote to her for money when she was utterly6 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 ward7 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 fugitive8, 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 killing9 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; frightful10 dreams, dread11 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 villain12 who would never cease to persecute13 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 respite14 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 folly15, that he was to know all the deceit, the clandestine16 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 doom17 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 veins18? 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 miserable19. Life and death alike are full of terrors for me."
What should she do? Through the long, burning hours, through the long, dreary20 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 overdone21, 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, fixed22 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 delirious23 with fear and dread; her brain whirled, her heart beat, every moment she dreaded24 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 oversight25.
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 sneaking26 villain known as Allan Lyster."
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1
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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6
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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7
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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15
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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oversight
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| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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