WEDLOCK 
 
 JOHN 
 STRANGE 
 WINT1 


 
 WEDLOCK
 
 WEDLOCK 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN STRANGE WINTER 
 
 Author of " Beetle's Baby," "Grip," "Into an Unknown World,' 
 "The Truth Tellers," Etc., Etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 R. F. FENNO & COMPANY 
 
 9 AND ii EAST i6TH STREET
 
 Copyright, 1898 
 
 BY 
 R. F. FKNNO & COMPANY 
 
 Wedlock
 
 WEDLOCK 
 
 CHAPTEE I 
 
 THE DINNER OF HERBS 
 
 " I HAVE great news for you, Mary ; Captain 
 Conway has been here." 
 
 " Captain Conway yes ! And what did he 
 want, mother ? What news did he bring ? " 
 
 Mary Hamilton took off her black straw hat 
 as she spoke and pushed the hair away from 
 her forehead with a weary gesture. Mrs. 
 Hamilton busied herself with the simple tea- 
 table, assiduously arranging plates, setting the 
 teaspoons straight in the saucers, laying the 
 butter-knife at an exact angle, and smoothing 
 away an infinitesimal crease in the white 
 
 cloth. 
 
 7 
 
 ??9QfilQ 
 
 Ad AA<nrf *_> \J.J^.\J
 
 8 Wedlock 
 
 "He he he made a suggestion to me, 
 Mary," she began, nervously. 
 
 " A suggestion ! " Mary Hamilton sat down 
 and eyed her mother expectantly. " You don't 
 mean that he proposed to you, mother," she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " Something very like it," replied Mrs. Ham- 
 ilton, still keeping herself very busy with the 
 table. 
 
 For a moment there was silence between 
 them ; Mary Hamilton sat looking with as- 
 tonishment at her mother and at last she 
 spoke. 
 
 " I suppose it wouldn't be a bad thing in 
 the mere way of money, mother," she said, 
 slowly. " But but oh, mother dear, you 
 could never bring yourself to do it." 
 
 For the first time Mrs. Hamilton turned and 
 looked straight at her daughter. " My dear 
 child," she exclaimed "you don't understand.
 
 The Dinner of Herbs 9 
 
 There is no question of my marrying Captain 
 Con way it is at least he never besides my 
 devotion to your poor father's memory should 
 have kept you from jumping to any such con- 
 clusion. Captain Conway is a good man, and 
 any woman might be honored in marrying 
 him, but my heart is in the grave and and 
 besides, he did not propose, he does not pro- 
 pose that / should consider the question of be- 
 coming his wife." 
 
 Mary Hamilton stared open-eyed at her 
 mother. " Dear mother," she said, gently 
 " I am tired to-night the children were very 
 troublesome to-day and the rooms seemed more 
 stuffy than usual. I feel confused. Do tell 
 me just what Captain Conway did suggest to 
 you." 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton began to pour out the tea 
 with a vehemence which showed how per- 
 turbed in mind she was. " Your poor father
 
 1O Wedlock 
 
 always said that I was injudicious in telling 
 news," she cried, in honest self-abasement. " I 
 ought to have seen that you were tired. Here 
 is your tea, darling. Drink it at once and 
 have another cup to go on with. The truth 
 is, Mary, that Captain Conway has flurried me 
 till I hardly know whether I am standing on 
 my head or my heels and and I never gave a 
 thought to your being tired out with that 
 hateful school, oh, to think that my daughter 
 should ever have been a board-school mistress, 
 not one remove from a National school, and 
 your poor father a clergyman in Holy Orders." 
 
 " My dear mother, do explain yourself," said 
 Mary, a fearful sense of coming evil gradually 
 overspreading her. 
 
 " Oh, my darling," cried the older woman, 
 " it's all over now all the drudgery, all the 
 pinching and the nipping. I've said little or 
 nothing because you were slaving your youth
 
 The Dinner of Herbs 11 
 
 away in that horrid degrading school but now 
 I may speak, now I may say how bitterly and 
 cruelly I have felt it all, the humiliations, the 
 the " 
 
 " Dear, there can be no degradation or 
 humiliation in honest work," said Mary, pa- 
 tiently, and yet with a dignity which sat be- 
 comingly on her tired young face. " And what 
 do you mean by its being over? Not surely 
 that Captain Con way wants to marry me" 
 
 "Yes you. And oh, my darling, it has 
 made me so happy," Mrs. Hamilton cried. 
 " Almost delirious with happiness." 
 
 " My dear mother," cried Mary, bolting a 
 piece of bread and butter with what was al- 
 most a convulsion. " You can't mean that 
 you would like me to marry Captain Con way ? " 
 
 " "Why not ? " asked the mother, blankly. 
 
 " I couldn't do it," declared the girl, stoutly. 
 
 "Couldn't do it!" Mrs. Hamilton's voice
 
 52 Wedlock 
 
 rose almost to a scream. "Couldn't do it! 
 Why, dear heaven, surely you would never 
 dream of flying in the face of Providence by 
 refusing him ! " 
 
 " Certainly, I would." 
 
 " He is rich," cried Mrs. Hamilton. 
 
 " He is old enough to be my father," said 
 Mary. " And I doubt if he is rich." 
 
 " Captain of one of the largest steamships 
 afloat," protested Mrs. Hamilton. " He is ex- 
 ceedingly well-off, he can provide for you 
 adequately. He has an excellent position " 
 
 " I don't couldn't never could love him," 
 Mary burst out. 
 
 " Perhaps not, but you can respect him," 
 cried the mother. 
 
 " I don't know that I should even do that 
 much," Mary returned. Then suddenly 
 clasped her hands together and looked appeal- 
 ingly at the excited woman opposite to her.
 
 The Dinner of Herbs 13 
 
 "Oh, mother, don't you understand why I 
 cannot do this thing ? Have you been so un- 
 happy in our little home that you want to sell 
 me to the first bidder ? I've been so contented 
 in working for you has it all been for noth- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Working for me," Mrs. Hamilton exclaimed, 
 indignantly. " Working for me indeed ! And 
 what have / done all these years ? Look at 
 my hands, worked to the bone cooking, 
 scrubbing, sewing, contriving, making my own 
 bits of clothes and never a place to show them 
 in in this desolate wilderness of bricks and 
 mortar! No one to associate with, living a 
 pensioner on your bounty, without pleasures, 
 interests or change of any kind. And then to 
 have your work thrown in my teeth, indeed." 
 
 " Oh, mother ! " 
 
 "It's all very well to say 'Oh, mother!' 
 but I'm speaking the truth. All these years I
 
 14 Wedlock 
 
 have struggled and striven for you and now 
 when you have a chance of letting me end my 
 days in peace, you turn up your nose at a man 
 \vhom any woman might be honored by 
 marrying. " 
 
 " You married for love yourself," said Mary, 
 in a very low voice. 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton caught up the words and 
 echoed them in the high pitched, querulous ac- 
 cents of a thoroughly selfish and superficial 
 person. "Married for love," she echoed, 
 shrilly. " Yes, and what did love ever do for 
 me? I married for love, married on eighty 
 pounds a year, drudged on it, slaved, toiled, 
 almost starved on it. Don't talk to me about 
 marrying for love, Mary love in a cottage is 
 a will-of-the-wisp that leads many people astray 
 and your poor father and I were among the 
 number. Was it natural, right, proper that he 
 should die at thirty-five, a worn-out, pre-
 
 The Dinner of Herbs 15 
 
 maturely old man, leaving me helpless, home- 
 less, penniless, to struggle on as best I could, to 
 drag you up as best I could ? That was what 
 marrying for love did for him, poor fellow. 
 He never would own it, he died with his hand 
 in mine his last words * The Lord will pro- 
 vide,' and now when provision has come, it is 
 only to be rejected." 
 
 Mary Hamilton sat still while this incon- 
 sequent torrent of recollection and vexation 
 poured from her mother's lips. At the vision 
 of the red-faced, burly, bluff sailor being re- 
 garded as a provision sent by the Lord to take 
 her from an independent life of honest work 
 to one of degrading idleness, she almost 
 laughed aloud, but she resolutely choked down 
 the inclination and spoke quietly and reason- 
 ably to the excited Avoman on the other side of 
 the table. 
 
 " Dear mother," she said, gently, " cannot
 
 16 Wedlock 
 
 you for my sake endure this life a little longer ? 
 After midsummer we shall be better off. 
 Even now we can well afford to have a woman 
 in to do the rougher work it has always been 
 for you to decide how the money shall be 
 spent. For my sake, dear ? " 
 
 "And why not for mine?" asked the 
 mother, fiercely. " Listen he has laid all his 
 plans before me. You will have a charming 
 house and garden, a couple of good maidserv- 
 ants, a handsome housekeeping purse, an ample 
 allowance for your dress and pocket-money. 
 There will always be room for me I am to 
 live with you to give the- benefit of my ad- 
 vice, my experience in housekeeping and all 
 such things. You will have as much society 
 as you care to take there will be no anxiety, 
 no thinking about the rent, or how to get 
 seven days' dinners out of a certain sum. You 
 will have "
 
 The Dinner of Herbs 17 
 
 " Oh, don't, mother, please don't," the girl 
 cried. " I know all these things are a tempta- 
 tion to you poor dear, it must be to you just 
 like opening a prison door and seeing a lovely 
 view over which you may walk forever on one 
 condition. But the condition, dear mother, 
 the condition. Think ! It is that of reaching 
 the fair pathways over your own child's body, 
 oh, worse, worse, over her very soul. It 
 means the sacrifice of all that is best in your 
 child's life, the giving up of her freedom, her 
 honor, her ambition, of all her better self. 
 Don't ask me to do it, dear, pray, pray don't. 
 I will work oh, how I will work how 
 thankfully and gratefully I will bring you 
 every farthing that I make, so that you may 
 be more content, less straitened. Mother dear, 
 speak to me ! For my father's sake say that 
 you won't urge this upon me." 
 
 But the words of appeal, glowing, passion-
 
 i8 Wedlock 
 
 ate, heart-full as they were, failed to touch the 
 shallow nature of the woman who in her day 
 had married for love and had found the din- 
 ner of herbs turn to dust and ashes between 
 her teeth. She rested her head dejectedly 
 upon her hand and gave several long-drawn 
 sighs of misery, calculated to move the heart 
 of a stone. 
 
 " Dear mother," murmured Mary from the 
 other side of the table. 
 
 But Mrs. Hamilton shook her head resolutely. 
 "No, Mary, it's no use your saying ' dear 
 mother ! ' It's worth nothing it means noth- 
 ing. I can't make you marry Captain Con- 
 way indeed, I've no wish to do so. I can't 
 make you see what is best for you, although 
 you might trust your own mother to give you 
 good advice on such a subject. I can do noth- 
 ing but bear my disappointment with resigna- 
 tion and fortitude. After all, it is only one
 
 The Dinner of Herbs 19 
 
 more bitter pill to swallow, one more drop of 
 bitterness in my cup of humiliation and self- 
 sacrifice. I'll say nothing more, Mary, only 
 only don't prate to me about love and devo- 
 tion. I've proved the value of both to-day. 
 And, after all my struggles to give you the 
 best of education it's hard it's heartbreak- 
 ing." 
 
 A sudden thought flashed across Mary Ham- 
 ilton's mind of certain clerical charities which 
 had from the time of her father's death pro- 
 vided her mother with the wherewithal of living, 
 of the great institution wherein she had received 
 her education free of cost to her mother and 
 because of the position in life which her father 
 had occupied, but she said nothing; she felt 
 that it would be useless. 
 
 " So my dream ends," said Mrs. Hamilton, 
 bitterly. " It says somewhere in the Bible 
 'Her children shall rise up and call her
 
 2o Wedlock 
 
 blessed.' It's a fallacy, nowadays at least, for 
 veneration for parents has gone out of fashion." 
 
 Mary Hamilton sat back in her chair won- 
 dering whether it would be best to let the 
 storm pass in silence or not. Mrs. Hamilton 
 got up from her place and went blindly to- 
 ward the door. I say blindly because she went 
 stumblingly and groped her way like a person 
 whose eyes were full of tears. There were, 
 however, no tears in her eyes but a strange 
 sightlessness, as if she had suddenly walked 
 into a heavy sea-fog. Then at the door she 
 stumbled and fell, not the sharp fall of a per- 
 son tripping by accident but the huddled-up 
 dropping to the ground of one unable any 
 longer to keep her feet. 
 
 Mary sprang from her seat with a cry. 
 " Mother mother you are ill," she burst out. 
 
 The answer came thick and indistinct. 
 " Dying ! Dying ! You have killed me ! "
 
 The Dinner of Herbs 21 
 
 The girl tried to lift the prostrate woman 
 but found herself powerless. She sank upon 
 her knees in an agony of apprehension. 
 
 "No no mother, don't say that. Let me 
 help you only try to get up I'll do anything 
 to please you mother mother."
 
 CHAPTEE II 
 
 DONE IN A MOMENT 
 
 WHEN Mary Hamilton found that her 
 mother had slipped into utter unconsciousness, 
 she ran to their nearest neighbors and begged 
 them to come in and aid her. So her mother 
 was with no little difficulty lifted from the 
 ground and carried up to her bedroom, and a 
 doctor was quickly sent for. His fiat was 
 given without the smallest hesitation. " It's a 
 stroke," he said, " but it might have been much 
 worse ; for instance, if it had been on the other 
 side it would probably have proved fatal al- 
 most immediately. As it is, with care, your 
 mother will probably recover and be quite or 
 very nearly herself again." 
 
 "With care ! Mary Hamilton's heart went 
 
 down to zero as she heard the two little simple 
 22
 
 Done in a Moment 23 
 
 words which give hope to some anxious watch- 
 ers of the sick, but which open out endless pos- 
 sibilities of unattainable needs to those who 
 are poorly placed in the world. In her case it 
 meant having an experienced person to tend 
 her mother by day and night alike, for be the 
 circumstances of life what they would, her 
 work must go on just the same. With the best 
 intentions in the world she could not be in two 
 places at once yet how was she to afford 
 skilled attendance for her mother. It was a 
 terrible question to answer. 
 
 At this point the advantages of the alliance 
 which the sick woman had been pressing upon 
 her daughter came prominently into view. 
 During the course of the evening Captain 
 Conway arrived eager and anxious as to his 
 answer, only to be met with the mournful 
 news that Mrs. Hamilton had been seized with 
 a paralytic stroke and was still unconscious.
 
 24 Wedlock 
 
 His first words were a suggestion. "You 
 will want a nurse." 
 
 " I shall want some one to look after my 
 mother while I am away at my work," Mary 
 admitted. "For to-night Mrs. Eobinson has 
 kindly promised to stay with me and to- 
 morrow I must find some nice, respectable 
 person " 
 
 " I will send in a proper nurse at once," said 
 the sailor, speaking in rough but kindly ac- 
 cents. " Skilled nursing is half the battle in 
 such cases as these. I never did believe in 
 makeshift nursing, it's the very the very 
 mischief." He had been going to use another 
 word but changed it out of deference to Mary 
 with a very perceptible effort over the substi- 
 tution. 
 
 " I can't let you," began Mary, at which he 
 put up his hand imperatively. 
 
 "Now, Miss Mary, none of that, if you
 
 Done in a Moment 25 
 
 please. I'm your friend, and friends are al- 
 lowed to make themselves useful to one an- 
 other in times of trouble all the world over. 
 I'll take it all on myself and will account to 
 your mother for the liberty I'm taking when 
 she's well enough to discuss such things. So 
 now I'll be off and will send in a suitable 
 nurse at once. Good-bye God bless you, my 
 dear." 
 
 He roughly pressed her hand and was gone 
 in a moment, leaving her standing looking 
 desolately after him. She shuddered as she 
 thought of him as her possible, nay probable 
 husband, he was so bluff and burly and griz- 
 zled, so loud of voice, so red of face, so dom- 
 inant ; he jarred upon every fibre of her being. 
 But it was useless to fight longer against fate, 
 even in the person of a man who was utterly 
 and entirely distasteful to her. She had strug- 
 gled with all her might against the sacrifice of
 
 26 Wedlock 
 
 her soul's best instincts but to no purpose, the 
 threads were drawing closer and closer around 
 her and if her mother recovered and still de- 
 manded the complete sacrifice of herself 
 against which she had so passionately fought, 
 she had given her word and must carry it 
 through to the very end. 
 
 Before a couple of hours had gone by a 
 white-capped nurse in dainty uniform had ar- 
 rived at the little house and had installed her- 
 self in charge of the case, and when Mary got 
 home from her work the following afternoon, 
 Mrs. Hamilton had recovered her senses again 
 and was pronounced to be vastly improved. 
 
 Her first mumbled words were as a death- 
 knell to Mary's heart " You promised," she 
 said, thickly. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I have not forgotten," Mary said, 
 hurriedly. " Don't think of that, dear ; only 
 get well and I will do anything you like."
 
 Done in a Moment 27 
 
 The sick woman gave a murmur of satisfac- 
 tion and closed her eyes again. Mary turned 
 away and went to the window, where she 
 stood looking out trying to keep herself under 
 control. Her face was white and set, her 
 hands shaking and cold. So her mother had 
 not forgotten, the sacrifice would have to be 
 made and she must at no distant time sell her- 
 self into a slavery which would be a living 
 horror. And this was the end of all her toil, 
 of all her ambitions, of all her brilliant hopes 
 and vivid dreamings ! Small wonder that her 
 heart seemed as if it had turned to water 
 within her, that her soul seemed numb and 
 dead as if she had lost herself in a deep and 
 treacherous morass from which she could 
 never be extricated, try and struggle as she 
 would. 
 
 I need not dwell upon this part of Mary 
 Hamilton's story. The hot and dusty summer
 
 28 Wedlock 
 
 days dragged drearily by, each one that 
 slipped into the tale that is fast bringing the 
 inevitable nearer and nearer. Mrs. Hamilton 
 slowly improved in health, Mary went to 
 and fro to her work, the white-capped nurse 
 remained in attendance and Captain Conway 
 hovered around the little household like a good 
 angel, an angel with a red weather-beaten 
 face and with a very large circumference. 
 
 The end came all too soon. He spoke to 
 her one evening, told her his hopes and fears ; 
 a great many hopes it must be owned, and a 
 very few fears it must be confessed. And 
 Mary told him honestly that she had never 
 thought of him before her mother's illness as 
 a possible husband, told him that she had 
 never thought of marrying him or any one 
 else, thanked him with tears in her grey eyes 
 for his goodness to her mother and promised 
 that if he would not expect too much of her,
 
 Done in a Moment 29 
 
 she would do her best to be a good and faith- 
 ful wife to him. 
 
 Captain Con way's answer was characteristic 
 of the man. He told her with all the assur- 
 ance and confidence of an Adonis of twenty 
 years his junior that he was perfectly satisfied 
 with her promises, that he would teach her to 
 love him when once she was really his own. 
 Mary shuddered but allowed the remark to 
 pass in silence and, if the whole truth be told, 
 let an inward prayer escape her heart that 
 some thunderbolt might fall and strike her 
 before that terrible day dawned. 
 
 Such prayers, however, are mostly futile. 
 Mary's wedding-day dawned all too soon 
 and the warning "be not afraid with any 
 amazement" rang out over the heads of an 
 ashen-pale bride, who had steadfastly and 
 resolutely refused to allow herself to be 
 decked in bridal attire, a rather nervous and
 
 30 Wedlock 
 
 rubicund bridegroom, who dropped the ring 
 and mumbled his vows defiantly after the 
 officiating minister, a mahogany-faced grooms- 
 man and a frail, elderly lady in a mauve silk 
 who leaned upon the arm of a tall young 
 woman in nurse's uniform. 
 
 So the sacrifice was completed! To Mary 
 Hamilton, Mary Conway by then, it passed 
 like a hideous dream, only there was no awak- 
 ening. 
 
 "My darling child," cried her mother, en- 
 thusiastically. " I am so happy My dear 
 children." 
 
 " I am glad, mother," Mary whispered back 
 and wondered the while if God would ever for- 
 give her for the false vows she had plighted, 
 the outrage she had done to herself, for being 
 the living lie that she Avas. 
 
 And then began a life which was an hourly, 
 daily torture and martyrdom. The husband
 
 Done in a Moment 31 
 
 was quick to see that he had made the gravest 
 of all mistakes, that he had bought the casket 
 but could not possess himself of the jewel 
 within, to realize that his wife was his, but 
 that her heart was miles and miles away and 
 would never be his, even though he were to 
 live for a thousand years. He was quick to 
 learn that he would never be the master to 
 teach this particular pupil to conjugate the 
 verb to love and the knowledge coming upon 
 his passionate love and admiration for her, 
 was as oil poured upon a fierce flame. 
 
 How can I describe those few weeks which 
 passed between the marriage and Captain 
 Conway's first departure on a voyage to the 
 other side of the world ? They were hideous ! 
 Mary, who had been awakened also, was pos- 
 sessed of only one desire to hide the truth 
 from the mother for whose sake she had sold 
 herself, to hide from her the knowledge which
 
 32 Wedlock 
 
 had come to her all too surely, that the genial, 
 bluff, jovial sailor, with his frank, hearty ways 
 and his open-handed generosity, was in reality 
 of a coarse and calculating nature, which had 
 taken count of every farthing that he had ex- 
 pended and who looked to have payment and 
 interest for every single coin ; to hide from her 
 that his geniality too often meant drink and 
 that his frank bluifness was merely the cover 
 for a vindictive and passionate temper. To 
 hide from her, in short, all that he really and 
 truly was. 
 
 It was not until within a few days of the 
 time fixed for the sailing of Captain Conway's 
 ship that there was actually any open disa- 
 greement between them and even then the 
 full measure of her humiliation and misery 
 came upon her like a thunderclap. It hap- 
 pened that Captain Conway had been explain- 
 ing to her how she must manage about money
 
 Done in a Moment 33 
 
 during his absence. "The rent is paid," he 
 said. " And you can draw ten pounds a week 
 which ought to cover the bare expenses. If 
 you fall short at the end of the month when 
 the wages are due Are you listening 
 Mary ? " he broke off in a voice of thunder. 
 
 "Yes, Edward, of course I am listening," 
 said Mary with a violent start. 
 
 " Then what do you want to look like that 
 for ? Do you want to make me think you're 
 pining because I am going? Bah! You're 
 enough to sicken a man, you white-faced cat." 
 
 The girl's first instinct was to start to her 
 feet, her fingers almost without her own will 
 clenched themselves together, her cheeks were 
 as red as peonies until, in her anger at such an 
 insult, they faded to the paleness of death. 
 Then she remembered her mother, the frail, 
 weak, feeble soul who persisted in calling 
 Captain Conway her dear boy, and in attribut-
 
 34 Wedlock 
 
 ing to him every noble and generous attribute 
 that could by any chance be found in the 
 character of any man, and her instinct was to 
 hide it, to smooth things over, to to go on 
 living the lie as she had begun. 
 
 " Edward, don't say that," she began, nerv- 
 ously. " You will frighten my mother." 
 
 " And if I do ! " he cried, roughly. " It's 
 always mother here, mother there. What do 
 I care whether she's frightened or not ? " 
 
 "You frighten me," Mary gasped, and in 
 truth she was shaking in every limb, shaking 
 like an aspen leaf in a storm. 
 
 " I'm glad of that. It's a relief to find I 
 can make you feel something. What did you 
 marry me for ? " 
 
 " You wanted me to marry you," she said, 
 unsteadily. 
 
 " I wanted you ! I I Yes, and you laid 
 yourself out to please me "
 
 Done in a Moment 35 
 
 " My God, no 1 " she cried, sharply, forget- 
 ting for a moment her policy of conciliation. 
 And then I don't like to write it I don't 
 like to think of it then there was a blow a 
 fall and dead silence only broken by the 
 deep-drawn, gasping sobs of an outraged and 
 broken-hearted woman. 
 
 For a moment he said nothing. Then he 
 seemed to pull himself together and he put 
 out his hand to help her. " I didn't mean to 
 do that," he said, shamefacedly. "I ought 
 not to have done it. You drew it on your- 
 self, Mary, but I'm sorry. Kiss me and be 
 friends." 
 
 She put his hand aside and rose to her feet 
 without aid ; and there they stood facing each 
 other, he flushed and ashamed, she with the 
 mark of his hand upon her face. 
 
 " You struck me," she said, at last. Her 
 whole face and being were changed. From a
 
 36 Wedlock 
 
 passive martyr, she had become an accusing 
 spirit. " You struck me ! " The words 
 hissed out like whips cutting through the air. 
 The man shrank a little as he heard. 
 
 " I forgot myself," he muttered, sullenly. 
 " I admit it. I want to be friends." 
 
 The girl's grey eyes were fixed upon him 
 and seemed to look into his very soul. " You 
 told me you would teach me to love you," she 
 said, with intense scorn. " Your way is rough 
 and ready. I congratulate you upon your 
 success." 
 
 "Mary," he burst out. "You never did 
 care you've cheated me " 
 
 " Care If " she echoed. " You are strong 
 for a man I am not even strong for a girl, 
 for all my life has been passed in sitting at a 
 desk. You may kill me if you like. I dare 
 say you will and I shall not mind, for at least, 
 it will take me out of this ; but at any rate I
 
 Done in a Moment 37 
 
 will tell you one thing. I have hated myself 
 for not caring. I have never ceased to re- 
 proach myself for having loathed you. Now, 
 with all my heart, I thank God for it."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 HER LAST WORD 
 
 WHEN Mary Con way uttered those scathing 
 words " I have never ceased to reproach my- 
 self for having loathed you. Now, with all 
 my heart, I thank God for it," they were fol- 
 lowed by a long, dead silence. She, slight and 
 frail and ashen-white, stood boldly fronting 
 him, her eyes filled with intensest scorn and 
 showing no shred of the fear with which her 
 heart was quaking, he, divided between rage 
 and astonishment just touched with shame 
 that he should have raised his hand to a 
 woman and that woman his young wife. So 
 they stood until at last he found words with 
 which to speak. 
 
 " So you loathe me, do you ?" 
 
 An older or a wiser woman might have 
 
 38
 
 Her Last Word 39 
 
 given a softer answer than leaped to Mary 
 Con way's lips in reply. "Yes," she said, 
 harshly. "Only loathing is too mild a 
 word." 
 
 "But you married me you were willing 
 enough to marry me," he said, gnawing at his 
 under lip viciously. 
 
 " "Willing never ! " she flashed out. " I 
 married you, it is true, with feelings of grati- 
 tude, with a desire to do my best to repay you 
 for the money you had laid out, with a belief 
 that you were kind and good, if not the lover 
 of my heart nor the husband of my imagina- 
 tion. I have learned since that there was no 
 need of gratitude from me to you, that there 
 was no kindness or goodness in the help you 
 gave during my mother's illness, that every 
 day the nurse remained, every drop of wine 
 my mother drank, every strawberry she ate 
 were all entered into an account which I was
 
 40 
 
 Wedlock 
 
 to pay one day with nay very heart's blood. 
 Well, you have had your pound of flesh, you 
 have bought your wife, and the bargain is 
 complete, the debt all paid. To-day you have 
 broken every bond, every link, every chain be- 
 tween us. I bear your name, that's all." 
 
 " Is that your last word, Mary ? " 
 
 " Yes my last word. No, I am not afraid 
 of you. My poor little frail body is afraid, 
 horribly, desperately afraid of you but my 
 heart and my soul and all that's best of me 
 never never never." 
 
 " You'll be glad when I'm gone ? " 
 
 "Thankful." 
 
 " You'll never remember anything of what I 
 did for you ? " 
 
 " I shall always remember you as the man 
 who struck me." 
 
 " You'd like to be free of me ? " 
 
 She drew a deep breath more significant
 
 Her Last Word 41 
 
 than words. He laughed aloud, a laugh void 
 of merriment, such as one might hear from 
 the friends in hell. 
 
 " You'd like me to provide for you perhaps ? 
 To make you a suitable allowance and clear 
 out myself, eh ? To leave you and your old 
 mother " 
 
 "Leave my mother out of it," she cried, 
 fiercely. 
 
 " Oh, I've no wish to say anything against 
 her," he retorted. "To do her full justice, 
 she's always been appreciative enough of me, 
 a thundering deal more so than you have. 
 Still she's there. She's got to be reckoned 
 with, to be provided for, and you'd like to see 
 her end her days in comfort." 
 
 " I was satisfied enough with my life before 
 you came and made her dissatisfied with the 
 provision that I was able to make for her. 
 You took away my living it is but right that
 
 42 Wedlock 
 
 you should provide for both. You did noth- 
 ing with your eyes shut." 
 
 "Nor you. Well I do provide for you 
 both I shall continue to do so. But there's a 
 side to my part of the bargain. I didn't look 
 to provide for a wife, to say nothing of her 
 mother, and to keep away from her, and I 
 won't do it. You've no witness that I struck 
 you and it wo aldn't sound a likely story any- 
 how. I'll go away to-day instead of Monday, 
 for I'm sore and angry and not master of my- 
 self and neither are you. But I shall come 
 back again. I shall come home again and 
 you'll receive me as if nothing had happened 
 between us. I'm sorry I forgot myself just 
 now and for that reason, I'll give you till I 
 come home again to pull yourself together in 
 and after that, we will begin again as if noth- 
 ing had happened." 
 
 " I shall never begin again as if nothing had
 
 Her Last Word 43 
 
 happened," she exclaimed, passionately. " How 
 could I ? You struck me. So long as you 
 were only old and rough and and distaste- 
 ful to me, I endured you. But you have gone 
 beyond " 
 
 " You took me for better or worse," he in- 
 terrupted. 
 
 " I know it ; but I did not bargain for its 
 being all for worse." 
 
 " "We'll see about that," he said with a sneer. 
 "It's easy work talking of what one will or 
 one won't do. You've left yourself in a cleft 
 stick, my fine little lady wife, and I think 
 when you come to facing the world from the 
 very bottom of the ladder, with your invalid 
 mother who has got used to a comfortable way 
 of living, you'll find it harder than you think 
 for. It's one thing to talk large about break- 
 ing loose and it's another thing to do it with 
 your handicap tied round your neck. Any
 
 44 
 
 Wedlock 
 
 way, that's my last word. I've made up my 
 mind. It's a case of my will giving way to 
 yours, or yours breaking down to mine. I 
 don't intend if there's any breaking down that 
 it shall be on my side." 
 
 He did not give her time to reply but went 
 out of the room with a great bustle and the 
 next moment she heard him giving directions 
 to the servants about his baggage. A few 
 minutes afterward she heard him go out of the 
 house, and then came the sound of her mother's 
 voice calling to her. 
 
 " Mary, Mary, where are you ? " 
 " Here, mother. Do you want anything ? " 
 She ran down into the bright little entrance- 
 hall to find her mother, who still dragged one 
 leg a little, holding on to the door-post of the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 " My poor child, my poor darling child, what 
 terrible news," she exclaimed. She was
 
 Her Last Word 45 
 
 smartly and daintily dressed and looked very 
 pretty as she stood there. 
 
 " What terrible news ? " asked Mary. For 
 a moment her heart stood still, for she thought 
 that her husband had blurted out all the truth 
 in his anger. 
 
 "What news?" echoed Mrs. Hamilton. 
 " Why, that dear Edward has had a telegram 
 which will take him away from us to-day in- 
 stead of next week. Try to bear up, my poor 
 darling." 
 
 " Yes, I will try, mother," said Mary, feel- 
 ing almost ready to let herself go off into 
 wild shrieks of hysterical laughter at the irony 
 of the situation. 
 
 "In the first flush of your married happi- 
 ness, too," Mrs. Hamilton said, mournfully, as 
 she dragged slowly back again to her seat by 
 the window. " Of course duty is duty, as I 
 said to the dear fellow."
 
 46 Wedlock 
 
 "And what did he say to that?" Mary 
 asked the question involuntarily. 
 
 " Oh, he is always so full of his quaint, bluff 
 humor," replied Mrs. Hamilton, smiling ten- 
 derly at the recollection. " ' It's no use keep- 
 ing a mill to turn, mother,' he said in his 
 hearty way ' unless one finds grist to put in 
 it.' Dear fellow." 
 
 Mary sat down at the other side of the win- 
 dow and got out her embroidery from the 
 smart workbasket. Mrs. Hamilton looked at 
 her with astonished eyes, first at her and then 
 at the bit of dainty work in her hands. 
 
 " Are you not going to help Mouncey ? " she 
 asked. It was a point of honor with Mrs. 
 Hamilton that Mary's maids should be called 
 by their surnames, although both of them de- 
 tested the custom. 
 
 "No, mother Mouncey has all instructions 
 from Edward."
 
 Her Last Word 47 
 
 For a moment Mrs. Hamilton kept silence, 
 but at last she burst out impulsively. " You 
 are very strange, Mary," she cried. "When 
 your poor father was going away, I always 
 arranged every little detail for him with my 
 own hands but you sit there as coldly as if 
 you had been married twenty years instead of 
 this being your first parting with your hus- 
 band, little more than a bridegroom." 
 
 It must be owned that the girl felt a thrill 
 of disgust go through her at her mother's 
 words. A wild prayer half formed itself in 
 her heart that this first parting might be the 
 last and an alluring picture of a quiet grave 
 with the inscription " Mary Conway, aged 23 " 
 on the headstone, slipped sweetly through her 
 mind. She even smiled, heart-sick as she was, 
 as she answered her mother's plaintive and 
 wondering words. 
 
 " Ah, but you see it was different with you,
 
 48 Wedlock 
 
 mother, you married for love. Edward 
 doesn't keep me to pack his things for him. 
 Mouncey will do it better than I." 
 
 " It is most strange," said Mrs. Hamilton, 
 " but, of course, we express our feelings so dif- 
 ferently. You are so like your poor father, 
 and not in the least like me. He was always 
 so quiet and reserved just as you are." 
 
 " One cannot help one's nature," said Mary, 
 trying to speak with indifference. " And, of 
 course, we have known all along that Edward 
 would have to be away a good deal ; a few 
 days more or less makes little difference." 
 
 " Ah I well, it is all for the best that you do 
 take things like that," said Mrs. Hamilton, dis- 
 tinct reproach in her tones. " I should never 
 have done for a sailor's wife I should have 
 broken my heart every time he went away." 
 
 " God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb," 
 said Mary.
 
 Her Last Word 
 
 49 
 
 She felt that the remark was flippant, even 
 unfeeling, and yet the effort which she was 
 putting upon herself was so great that it was 
 only by the most severe determination that 
 she was able to keep herself calm. The thrill 
 of compunction was, however, thrown away, 
 for Mrs. Hamilton's shallow mind was not 
 capable of taking in two ideas at the same 
 time. 
 
 " Ah, yes, truer words were never spoken," 
 she remarked. "I often wonder what I 
 should have done if Providence had not sent 
 dear Edward our way. I shudder to think 
 what my life would have been, ill and alone 
 all day, in that miserable little house, in that 
 dreary, sordid neighborhood." 
 
 " I should have made other arrangements. 
 I should have done my best," said Mary, a lit- 
 tle indignantly. 
 
 "Yes, darling child, I know you would,"
 
 50 Wedlock 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton returned, in an indulgent tone, 
 as one might speak to a feeble person who 
 had tried to stem the river of life and had 
 failed utterly. "But mercifully and truly 
 the ways of Providence are wonderful, I feel 
 it more and more every day that I live 
 mercifully God did think fit to temper the 
 wind to the shorn lamb or the shorn sheep 
 as one might say in my case. Mary, what 
 have you done to your face ? " She asked the 
 last question in a totally different voice Mrs. 
 Hamilton was always two people at one and 
 the same time, the artificial fine lady who was 
 given to preaching little sermonettes all in 
 platitudes, and the shallow, self-centred person 
 with a keen eye to the main chance of num- 
 ber one. 
 
 Mary started at the direct question. She 
 was accustomed to hearing her mother babble 
 aimlessly on from subject to subject, but a
 
 Her Last Word 51 
 
 change of tone always called for attention. 
 " My face," she said, slowly ^ putting up her 
 hand to the red mark " oh it got knocked." 
 
 For half a word she would have burst out 
 with the whole story, but in Ler sudden upward 
 glance she had noted Mrs. Hamilton's serene, 
 well-satisfied expression, the look of care and 
 attention which pervaded her whole person, 
 her smart gown, her dainty little coquettish 
 cap. All these things meant money, all these 
 little details were as the breath of life to the 
 shallow and narrow soul who had never before 
 known what it was to revel in a fairly good 
 income. As the conviction came home to her, 
 Mary's heart failed or her better nature pre- 
 vailed, so that she kept the truth to herself. 
 
 " it got knocked," she said, evasively, 
 and Mrs. Hamilton was satisfied. She went 
 into a long dissertation of how she once had 
 run against a closet door in the dark and of
 
 52 Wedlock 
 
 how "your poor father" said that her face 
 looked exactly as if some one had struck her ; 
 and in the midst of this Mary suddenly re- 
 membered something that would carry her up- 
 stairs, and once in the shelter of her own room, 
 she fought with her pain and misery, ay, as 
 desperately as any martyr fought with beasts 
 of old in the amphitheatre of cruel Home. 
 
 It was hard work, hard work, this martyrdom 
 of hers, a voluntary sacrifice for a mother in- 
 capable of appreciating a nature finer than 
 her own ; it was nobility thrown away, con- 
 sideration for one who never considered any 
 one but herself. Some glimmering and it 
 was only a glimmering, for our knowledge of 
 natures with which we have grown up, comes 
 but slowly and tremblingly came to her 
 when she had calmed herself and forced her- 
 self to go down again to the pretty drawing- 
 room which was part of her prison.
 
 Her Last Word 53 
 
 "Frozen, poor darling," she heard her 
 mother say "quite frozen. Be very tender 
 with her, dear boy, she has a highly sensitive 
 nature and feels things terribly. Those who 
 can sob and cry, get off very easily in this 
 life, my dear Edward but it is the quiet, un- 
 demonstrative ones who feel. My poor darl- 
 ing, my heart aches for her."
 
 CHAPTER IT 
 
 PAETED 
 
 THE actual parting between Captain Conway 
 and Mary was got over more easily than she 
 had hoped. She had been afraid that Mrs. 
 Hamilton would be present to the last moment 
 and that she would inevitably discover at 
 least something of the true state of affairs 
 between them. Fortunately, however, Mrs. 
 Hamilton was dominated by a keen desire to 
 spare herself any needless excitement, so that 
 she ensconced herself in her favorite chair in 
 the drawing-room window and bade farewell 
 to her son-in-law in that place. 
 
 "Go to the gate to see the last of the 
 master," she said to the two servants. " Mrs. 
 
 Conway is feeling the parting terribly and it 
 64
 
 Parted 55 
 
 will be less hard for her if she has no one to 
 look on." 
 
 The two girls were not a little sceptical as 
 to the depth of their young mistress' woe, but 
 they fell in with cheerful obedience to the 
 wishes of " Missis's mother " and went off to 
 the front gate leaving the husband and wife 
 to part without on-lookers. 
 
 What actually took place was this. Captain 
 Conway went in to the drawing-room to say 
 good-bye to Mrs. Hamilton, enduring her tears 
 and clinging embraces like a true Briton. 
 " I'll take care of her, dear boy," she whispered, 
 brokenly. " My poor, poor child." 
 
 "Good-bye, mother," he said, briefly. "I 
 haven't a minute to spare. Good-bye. Take 
 care of yourself," and then he went out of the 
 room closing the door behind him. 
 
 ""Well, good-bye, Mary," he said, holding 
 out his hand to his wife.
 
 56 Wedlock 
 
 " Good-bye," said Mary, without looking at 
 him. 
 
 " You haven't changed your mind yet ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Not in the least." 
 
 For a moment he said nothing. " You little 
 devil," he hissed at last between his teeth 
 " you're prettier and more fetching than ever." 
 He caught hold of her and held her closely to 
 him. " Do you think you are going to keep 
 me at arm's length forever ? Not a bit of it. 
 I love you ten thousand times more for being 
 such a little devil as you are. All the other 
 women I've ever known are as tame as new 
 milk compared to you. There's no mistake 
 about your being like strong drink to a man. 
 You'll kiss me before I go ? " 
 
 " Not I ! " 
 
 " No ! Well, I'll wait for that. Meantime 
 you're here, my lady-bird, and I'll have a
 
 Parted 57 
 
 few kisses to remember you by before we 
 part." 
 
 "No no." 
 
 " Yes yes," he persisted, and being like a 
 frail reed in the hands of a giant, she could 
 not prevent him from covering her face with 
 kisses. 
 
 He set her free as suddenly as he had caught 
 her and turning went out of the house and 
 away down the garden-path without once 
 again looking at her. Mary, as soon as she 
 was free, fled to her own room and locked 
 herself into that sanctuary. Her first act was 
 to run to the dressing-glass and to look at her- 
 self, and somehow the sight of her scarlet face 
 and blazing eyes but served to fan the fierce 
 flame of bitter resentment which was burning 
 so passionately in her heart. " How dared he, 
 how dared he ? " she burst out. " Does he 
 think I am a toy to be flung down one minute
 
 58 Wedlock 
 
 and played with the next? Oh, how dared 
 he?" 
 
 She was quivering with rage but there was 
 no suspicion of tears about her eyes; out- 
 raged pride, anger, womanly fury possessed 
 her, but grief had no place in that tumult of 
 emotions. She felt more deeply insulted than 
 if some strange man had seized her in the 
 street and had deliberately kissed her without 
 so much as a with your leave or a by your 
 leave. Such a proceeding her thoughts might 
 have put down to a dozen motives, admiration, 
 daring, or a wager ; but to think that the man 
 who only that morning had raised his hand 
 and struck her to the floor, to think that he 
 had dared to force his loathsome kisses upon 
 her and in sight of her absolute refusal, it 
 was horrible it was an outrage, no more, no 
 less. 
 
 She was still raging when the bell rang in
 
 Parted 59 
 
 the hall and after a minute or so Mouncey 
 came up and told her that tea was served in 
 the drawing-room. With the best intentions 
 in the world, and believing thoroughly in a 
 cup of tea as a universal panacea for every 
 woe, Mrs. Hamilton had ordered the small 
 repast to be served a full half-hour earlier 
 than usual, and when Mary, still flushed and 
 full of ire, came down, she entered into a 
 voluble explanation of her reasons for so 
 doing. 
 
 "Come, my darling, a cup of tea will do 
 you all the good in the world. I suggested to 
 Mouncey that she should let us have it at once. 
 There are little hot buns, dear child. Come, 
 try to eat some, for fretting will not bring our 
 dear boy home one day earlier." 
 
 A reply rose to the tip of Mary's tongue, 
 one which would have relieved her mother's 
 mind forever as to the likelihood of her fret-
 
 60 Wedlock 
 
 ting; she choked it back, however, and sat 
 down before the tea-table. Mrs. Hamilton 
 looked at her furtively. 
 
 "Evidently she is bottling it all up, poor 
 darling ; there's not a sign of a tear. Such an 
 intense yet reserved nature. My poor, poor 
 girl ! " and then Mrs. Hamilton helped herself 
 to a little hot bun with a virtuous air as one 
 who is conscious of having done her whole 
 duty in every relation of life. 
 
 From that moment the household went on 
 with the regularity of clockwork and in all 
 respects as if no absent master was in exist- 
 ence. Mrs. Hamilton assiduously studied the 
 daily papers for news of the Arikkama, and 
 she babbled from time to time of " our dear 
 boy." After several days she, however, gave 
 up even that much and as Mary did not di- 
 vulge the contents of several letters which she 
 received from her husband, Mrs. Hamilton
 
 Parted 61 
 
 was positively afraid to question her on the 
 subject but contented herself with seeing that 
 extra good things were provided for Mary's 
 meals. 
 
 " Yes see that there are little buns, Moun- 
 cey," she said each morning. " And tell Fos- 
 ter to make them very hot and with plenty of 
 butter. What would Mrs. Con way like for a 
 sweet ? "Well, let me see, she used to love a 
 trifle with almonds, ratafias and strawberry 
 jam. You might tell Foster to make a nice 
 little dish of trifle and perhaps mushrooms on 
 toast for afterward. "We must take care to 
 keep Mrs. Conway's strength up. She is feel- 
 ing the parting terribly." 
 
 "Which" commented Julia Mouncey as 
 she repeated the conversation to the neat cook 
 in the kitchen " which between you and me, 
 Alice, I'm more than doubtful about. It's my 
 opinion that missis married master out of con-
 
 62 Wedlock 
 
 sideration for her ma. 'Tain't likely a grizzled, 
 gruff, unreasonable beast such as 'im's going to 
 break any young girl's 'eart when he goes 
 away." 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder but what you're right, 
 Julia," returned Foster, wisely. 
 
 Meantime in Mary's mind only a huge sense 
 of relief from an obnoxious presence dominated 
 every other feeling. She heard her mother's 
 remarks about " our dear boy " it is true, but 
 she simply endured them as so much babble 
 which it would be useless to answer. Her one 
 idea was to think out some plan by which she 
 could be rendered free of her husband's purse 
 at the end of the time of his absence. She had 
 fully made up her mind that she would never 
 under any circumstances live with him again. 
 She told herself that it was no part of a wife's 
 duties to live with a man who had used per- 
 sonal violence toward her ; she went over the
 
 Parted 63 
 
 situation many times in her own mind, and she 
 had deliberately come to the conclusion that in 
 striking her to the ground, Captain Conway 
 had forfeited all further right to her consider- 
 ation. 
 
 " I knew," her thoughts ran, " that he was 
 elderly, or at least of advanced middle age, that 
 he was rough and plain in ways and manners, 
 but I did not know that he was a brute, an un- 
 mitigated brute. If I had known it, even for 
 my mother's sake I could not and would not 
 have married him. Now I feel I am perfectly 
 justified in carving out the rest of my own life 
 independently of him." 
 
 But though it is an easy thing to say that 
 one will carve out a life for oneself, it is an- 
 other thing to do it. It is one thing to declare 
 for independence ; it is another thing to free 
 oneself from a dependent position. And when 
 Mary Conway came to weigh herself in the
 
 64 Wedlock 
 
 balance against fate, she found that she was 
 not able to press down her side of the scales so 
 much as a jot. 
 
 Her own career in which she had been do- 
 ing so well at the time of her marriage was ir- 
 revocably closed to her, even had she been 
 willing to begin again at the lowest rung of 
 the ladder, and no other one seemed to be 
 open to her. She thought of many ways of 
 earning a living, but the very first question 
 which common sense put to her always brought 
 her up sharp like a bird tied by the leg which, 
 when it would flutter away, is brought up 
 sharply to a standstill by the string that ties 
 it. The question was "What do you know 
 about it ? " the answer was always the same 
 and replied with uncomprising curtness 
 "Nothing I " 
 
 She gave more than a thought to going on 
 the stage always a woman's first instinct in
 
 Parted 65 
 
 times of stress ; but when she heard of there 
 being eleven hundred names on the books of 
 one theatre and fifteen hundred on the promise- 
 list of another, she was discouraged from any 
 hopes of success in that direction. She thought 
 of trying literature and she did write a little 
 story which she smiled and cried over and 
 copied out many times and loved dearly. But 
 she sent her bantling out into the hard world 
 and she never saw or heard of it again I She 
 wondered whether she could start a better-class 
 school for small children but again, although 
 she felt herself competent enough to teach, 
 common sense stepped in and asked " How are 
 you going to furnish a house, how are you go- 
 ing to live during the first quarter ? Will your 
 mother ever consent to tear herself away from 
 4 her dear boy ' and Acacia Yilla ? " And the 
 answer to each was such as showed the utter 
 hopelessness of attempting any such scheme
 
 66 Wedlock 
 
 as a way out of her present difficulties. The 
 want of experience, the want of capital, the 
 drag that her invalid mother must always be 
 upon her movements, these disadvantages al- 
 ways came home to her when she thought out 
 some fresh scheme for earning a living. 
 
 " If I had only myself to consider, I could 
 go and be a scullery-maid," she said to herself 
 passionately, forgetting, poor girl, that a 
 school-teacher would be of but little use in 
 kitchen or scullery. 
 
 So the days went by, peacefully and un- 
 eventfully enough, in perfect content on Mrs. 
 Hamilton's part, in feverish unrest for Mary. 
 And as each one darkened into night, she felt 
 that she was one day nearer to a terrible alter- 
 native, to a meeting with the man who had 
 sworn to protect her against all possible 
 troubles, but who had outraged her woman- 
 hood, and broke down every shred of respect
 
 Parted 67 
 
 and gratitude which she might, nay would have 
 felt for him. She felt more and more as each 
 morning rose that she was fast approaching the 
 time when she must either submit to the vilest 
 degradation of herself or see her mother thrust 
 out in her feebleness to face a cold world in 
 which there was not so much as the barest 
 provision for her 1 It was a terrible situation, 
 a cruel alternative, yet it was the natural out- 
 come of a marriage entered into without the 
 one great amalgamating alloy love ! 
 
 But time goes on. Be the need ever so 
 great, there are no Joshuas nowadays to bid 
 the sun stand still in the heavens and so time 
 flits on with noiseless and relentless step. The 
 summer faded, autumn drew on, winter was 
 nigh at hand and Mary Conway had found no 
 resting-place, no coign of vantage, no protec- 
 tion against the humiliation that loomed be- 
 fore her.
 
 68 Wedlock 
 
 Her last effort was to go round the great 
 dress-shops in the "West End but each one found 
 some fault and would have none of her. One 
 told her that want of experience was an insu- 
 perable objection, another that they never took 
 young ladies into the show-rooms without a 
 handsome premium. A third complained that 
 she was not tall enough, a fourth that she 
 looked delicate, a fifth that she was too shy in 
 manner. So she went home wearied in mind 
 and body alike with one more avenue closed 
 to her, one more hope gone. And when she 
 with a word of explanation upon her lips, 
 opened the drawing-room door, it was to find 
 her mother lying senseless upon the ground, 
 and in her stiffened fingers an evening paper 
 tightly clutched.
 
 CHAPTEE Y 
 
 SHIPWKECK 
 
 MARY CON WAY forgot in an instant all the 
 weariness and heartsickness which had pos- 
 sessed her when she entered the house. She 
 cast but one glance at the helpless figure lying 
 on the hearth-rug, then ran to the bell and 
 pulled at it hard, an eager peal such as brought 
 the two maidservants running in to see what 
 was amiss. 
 
 " Mouncey my mother ! How long has 
 she been left ? " Mrs. Conway gasped. 
 
 Mouncey with a scared face knelt down on 
 the other side of the unconscious woman. 
 " Lor, ma'am," she said, in trembling tones, 
 " it's not ten minutes since I carried tea in. I 
 
 69
 
 7 o 
 
 Wedlock 
 
 came twice and Mrs. Hamilton said she'd 
 rather wait for you and at last Foster made 
 the buns hot and I brought tea in without 
 saying anything. And Mrs. Hamilton she 
 says, ' Why, Mouncey,' she says, ' you do spoil 
 me.' And I says to her, * Lor, ma'am, misses 
 will be vexed, if you go any longer past your 
 tea-time.' And then she says, 'There's the 
 newsboy. I'd like a paper, Mouncey.' So I 
 went out and got one and I give it to her and 
 why, poor lady, she's never had any tea at 
 all." 
 
 " "We must get her up to bed at once," said 
 Mary, anxiously. " Can we carry her among 
 us?" 
 
 "Lor, yes, ma'am," answered Mouncey, 
 promptly "a little bit of a thing like her. 
 Here, Foster, take her feet I'll take her head. 
 No, ma'am, we can do better just the two of 
 us."
 
 Shipwreck 7 1 
 
 . She was right and Mrs. Hamilton, who was 
 very small and slight, was soon safely laid 
 upon her own bed. 
 
 " I'd better fetch the doctor, ma'am ? " asked 
 Foster. 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, at once. We must get her 
 into bed, Mouncey." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, but there's no need to hurry. 
 Poor lady, I'm afraid it will make very little 
 difference to her." 
 
 " Hush sh ! " cried Mary, fearfully. 
 
 " Kay, ma'am, she hears nothing. If I was 
 you I would just cover her over with the eider- 
 quilt till the doctor has seen her. Anyway I 
 wouldn't undress her till the fire has burned 
 up. I was just coming up to light it." 
 
 She covered the old lady with the warm, 
 gay-colored quilt as she spoke and taking, after 
 the manner of housemaids, a box of matches 
 from her pocket set light to the fire, which
 
 j2 Wedlock 
 
 soon burned up cheerfully, casting a bright 
 glow over the pretty room. 
 
 " I'll fetch you a cup of tea now, ma'am," 
 she remarked, "for I'm sure you need it." 
 
 The protest which instinctively rose to her 
 lips, died away under a newborn realization 
 of her intense weariness. " I am very, very 
 tired, Mouncey," she said, helplessly. 
 
 The good-natured girl drew her into a chair 
 by the fire. " Sit here, ma'am, until I bring 
 your tea. You can't do anything for the poor 
 lady and you may want all your strength for 
 later on." 
 
 She sped away, returning in a very short 
 time with the tea-tray on which was a pot of 
 fresh tea and a covered plate of hot buns 
 which had been on the stove awaiting the mis- 
 tress's return. This she arranged on a little 
 table by the fireside, then poured out the tea
 
 Shipwreck 73 
 
 and held the inviting little cakes that Mary 
 might take one. 
 
 In truth Mary was too tired to refuse such 
 ministrations which were doubly welcome just 
 then, and Mouncey fairly stood over her until 
 she had eaten enough to satisfy her sense of 
 what was necessary and right. Then she went 
 downstairs leaving her mistress sitting in the 
 big armchair wondering what the end of it all 
 would be. 
 
 "Poor mother," her thoughts ran "poor, 
 poor mother. Are you going this time and 
 have I made the sacrifice for nothing ? No, 
 not for nothing, for I shall always be able to 
 say ' The end of her life was peace.' " 
 
 She rose restlessly from her chair and went 
 to the side of the bed, where she stood look- 
 ing down upon the drawn, grey face already 
 so deathlike in the immobility of unconscious- 
 ness. " I wonder what caused her to have an
 
 74 Wedlock 
 
 attack ? " Mary said to herself. " She was so 
 bright and well this morning. Could there 
 have been anything in that paper ? Where is 
 it ? What did Mouncey do with it ? " 
 
 She looked about for it but without success, 
 and then she remembered that possibly it was 
 still in her mother's hand. So it proved to be 
 and Mary was obliged to tear the sheet a little 
 in order to release it from that vice-like grip. 
 
 A glance was sufficient to tell the cause of 
 Mrs. Hamilton's seizure. As she smoothed 
 the crumpled page, her eye caught the head- 
 ing of the latest telegraphic news " Reported 
 loss of the Ocean Liner, Arikhama, with over 
 three hundred lives." 
 
 Mary Conway was still staring wildly at 
 the paper when Mouncey came in with the 
 doctor in her wake. "What is it?" she 
 asked, seeing the horror on her young mis- 
 tress's face.
 
 Shipwreck 75 
 
 " Oh, Mouncey the paper the news my 
 poor mother," was all that Mary could say ere 
 exhausted nature gave way under the strain 
 and she dropped to the ground as dead to all 
 sound and feeling as the poor lady stretched 
 upon the bed. 
 
 "Dear, dear, dear," said the doctor, "but 
 this is a pretty kettle of fish. Dear, dear, a 
 bad seizure this time. I was afraid it might 
 happen before long. My good girl, is there 
 bad news in that paper ? " 
 
 "Lor, sir master's ship loss of the Ari- 
 Jchama with three hundred souls. That's mas- 
 ter's ship he's the captain. Oh, my poor 
 missis, my poor, poor missis ! " 
 
 " Good heavens are you sure ? " 
 
 "See here, sir oh, it's true enough. Oh, 
 my poor, poor missis." 
 
 " "Well, help me to get her off the floor in 
 her case it's no more than a simple faint.
 
 76 Wedlock 
 
 Yes, in that chair undo her gown a few 
 drops of brandy. There, there, my dear lady, 
 you'll be all right now." 
 
 " What has happened ? " asked Mary, strug- 
 gling up but sinking back again as her head 
 began to swim " Oh, I remember, it doesn't 
 matter about me, doctor, but my mother she 
 is very ill. The shock was too much for her. 
 Do attend to her, please." 
 
 "If you will lie still, the maid and I will 
 attend to Mrs. Hamilton," said the doctor, 
 soothingly. "Little or nothing to be done," 
 he murmured to Mouncey, as they turned to 
 the bed. " She is not likely to live the night 
 out. She must be got into bed, of course. 
 What strength have you ? " 
 
 " Oh, I'm very strong, sir," replied Mouncey, 
 in a matter-of-fact tone. 
 
 "No, no, I meant how many of you are 
 there?"
 
 Shipwreck 77 
 
 " Me and cook, sir." 
 
 " What is she like ? n 
 
 " As strong and sensible a young woman as 
 you could wish to see in a day's march, sir," 
 replied Mouncey, promptly. " And'll do any- 
 thing in the world for the missis." 
 
 "That's good. If Mrs. Hamilton lingers 
 there must be a nurse got in, of course ; but 
 for to-night there will be little or nothing to 
 do, only she must not be left. I'll help you 
 to get her into bed." 
 
 " "We can manage, sir." 
 
 " It is not so easy as you think. Besides I'd 
 like to see her safely into bed before I leave." 
 
 The desired end was soon accomplished, un- 
 der the skilled hands of the doctor and the 
 willing ones of Mouncey. Then the doctor 
 wrote down a few simple instructions and left, 
 promising to look in again the last thing. 
 
 " Mrs. Con way," he said, gently, to Mary,
 
 78 Wedlock 
 
 " I must beg of you to try to eat your dinner. 
 You have had a great double-shock and you 
 will need all your reserve of strength. I have 
 given your maid all instructions there is 
 little, almost nothing to be done while your 
 mother continues in this state." 
 
 He went away then and Mary sat down 
 again in the big chair. The cook was busy 
 with the dinner and Mouncey, after clearing up 
 some imaginary litter, disappeared with the 
 tray, promising to come back in a few min- 
 utes. So she was left alone with her dying 
 mother and the knowledge of her own widow- 
 hood, left alone to face the fact that she was 
 practically free, that all the horror and 
 wretchedness which had but a few hours be- 
 fore lain directly facing her, had suddenly 
 been removed. The tears gushed out from her 
 sad eyes as she realized how this had come 
 about, but although she wept, the sense of re-
 
 Shipwreck 79 
 
 lief was there, involuntary, yet very, very 
 strong. 
 
 It was a wretched night which followed. 
 Mary honestly tried to eat the dainty little 
 dinner which Foster served to her while 
 Mouncey mounted guard in the sick-chamber, 
 but all the time the sound of rushing waters 
 was in her ears and the vision of drowned faces 
 before her eyes, and she turned loathingly 
 from the lonely meal which would have been 
 thoroughly enjoyed by the the poor soul up- 
 stairs fast drifting into eternity. 
 
 The pretense of dinner over she crept back 
 again to the sick-room, sending the two maids 
 down to supper and staying alone to keep the 
 watch by the dying beloved for whom she had 
 worked so hard and suffered so much, to watch 
 the outward passage of that frail and feeble 
 little bark which would leave her tossing to
 
 80 Wedlock 
 
 and fro upon the ocean of life with none to 
 counsel or guide. 
 
 It was a terrible night and it was followed 
 by a still more terrible day. Mary received 
 from the owners of the great ship full con- 
 firmation of the news which the newspaper had 
 taken to them in the first instance. 
 
 There was not the smallest doubt that the 
 large vessel was gone, that she was many 
 fathoms under water. There was little or no 
 doubt that Captain Conway had gone down 
 with her and so far as was known only five 
 persons of all her goodly company had lived to 
 tell the tale of her disastrous end. Two of 
 these were passengers, two were ordinary 
 sailors, the fifth was the ship's purser ; all the 
 rest of the three hundred souls who had sailed 
 aboard of her had found a watery grave and 
 would be seen no more. 
 
 All through the long hours of watching and
 
 Shipwreck 8l 
 
 suspense did Mary Conway try to battle down 
 the overwhelming sense of relief which had 
 taken possession of her. She cared not, did not 
 feel the very smallest grief for the husband 
 who had forgotten his manhood and her 
 Avomanhood alike, but she hated herself for not 
 feeling it. Her heart was torn in twain one 
 half was singing a pa3an of thankfulness for 
 deliverance, the other was bursting with a 
 sense of her own impotence and helplessness 
 to avert the sword then hanging above the 
 head of her sick mother as the sword of Dam- 
 ocles hung suspended by a single hair. 
 
 She was glad in her heart that her care and 
 anxiety for her mother would naturally ac- 
 count for the absence of any exhibition of 
 great or noisy grief for her husband. The 
 doctor spoke of the loss of the AriMama once 
 or twice, and Mouncey brought her the latest 
 details that were published in the papers, but
 
 82 Wedlock 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton was during those first few days 
 the object of paramount interest. Captain 
 Conway was gone ! All the love or loathing 
 in the world could not affect him any more, 
 for him all was over, he had already passed 
 among the things that have been and shall be 
 no more. But Mrs. Hamilton was still alive, 
 still needed the most minute care and the 
 closest attention. She was in spite of that ter- 
 rible tragedy of the sea, the most important 
 person of that small household. 
 
 In health she did not improve. At times 
 faint flashes of understanding came back but 
 they were only feeble and flickering efforts of 
 the clouded brain to reestablish its mastery of 
 what was going on around her. If she knew 
 any one definitely it was Mary, but of that, 
 even, they were none of them very certain. 
 The nurse who was in charge said positively 
 that Mrs. Hamilton knew no one. Mouncey
 
 Shipwreck 83 
 
 on the other hand insisted that she had seen 
 the poor lady's eyes follow the mistress as she 
 moved away from the bed. This, however, 
 was a question which no one could decide pos- 
 itively but in discussing it,, the on-lookers, 
 although it is proverbial that on-lookers see 
 most of the game, never realized that in anxiety 
 for her mother, Mrs. Conway suffered no grief 
 for her husband. 
 
 On the fourth day after the coming of the 
 news, Mary received a visit from two gentle- 
 men. One was the managing-director of the 
 company to which the AriJchama had belonged, 
 the other was by him introduced as the lawyer 
 to the company. 
 
 "You are perhaps," said Mr. Lawson, the 
 managing-director, " not aware, Mrs. Conway, 
 that your husband made a will three days 
 before the Arikhama sailed from London." 
 
 " I did not know it," said Mary.
 
 84 Wedlock 
 
 "Such, however, was the case," he said, 
 suavely, " and, moreover, his last instructions 
 were that should anything happen during 
 either of these voyages, Mr. Mannington" 
 indicating his companion by a gesture 
 " should at once seek you out and make you 
 acquainted with as little delay as possible with 
 his last wishes with regard to the property he 
 had to leave."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE HAND OP THE DEAD 
 
 MR. LAWSON ceased speaking and fixed his 
 attention upon his companion. Mary also 
 turned her clear eyes upon the lawyer and 
 awaited what he might say next. To say the 
 least of it his remark was unexpected. "I 
 may say at once that I did not make this will 
 of Captain Conway's," he said, in polite and 
 strictly professional accents. "It was made 
 by some person unknown to me and handed 
 to me by Captain Conway sealed as you see it 
 with instructions that should necessity arise I 
 should at once seek you out, break the seals in 
 your presence and make you acquainted with 
 the contents." 
 
 " I am quite at your service," said Mary, 
 
 tremulously. 
 
 85
 
 86 Wedlock 
 
 The lawyer at once broke the seals and 
 drew from the long, tough envelope a folded 
 paper. Mary sat with hands quietly clasped 
 in her lap waiting. Mr. Mannington cast his 
 eye over the writing, frowned, bit his lip, 
 glanced at the girl- widow apprehensively and 
 then coughed nervously. 
 
 "You have no idea I should say I 
 mean " he stammered. 
 
 Mary looked up. " Will you read it ? " she 
 suggested. " I have no idea what is in it but 
 I shall be surprised at nothing. Captain Con- 
 way had strange ideas on some subjects." 
 
 "Very strange," murmured Mr. Lawson, 
 who gathered from the lawyer's manner that 
 the will contained nothing of pleasant import 
 to the lady. 
 
 " I will read it," said the lawyer then 
 coughed again and began. " I, Edward Con- 
 way, Captain of the & S. Artichama, being of
 
 The Hand of the Dead 87 
 
 sound mind on this the eleventh day of July 
 18 declare this to be my last will and testa- 
 ment. All and any property of which I die 
 possessed, I give and bequeath to my nephew, 
 Howard Conway, to be absolutely and entirely 
 at his own disposal 
 
 (Signed) "EowAKD CONWAY. 
 
 " In the presence of 
 
 " Henry Challerton, 
 
 "John Walker." 
 
 For a few moments the widow and the ship- 
 owner were too much surprised to speak. Of 
 the three Mary was the most composed Mr. 
 Lawson was, however, the first to break the 
 silence. 
 
 " You were perhaps otherwise provided for, 
 Mrs. Conway ? " he said, gently. 
 
 Mary shook her head. " No, I am entirely 
 unprovided for," she replied.
 
 88 Wedlock 
 
 "But but such a will is preposterous. 
 Mannington, is there no possibility of upset- 
 ting it ? " 
 
 " Wills have been upset, of course, and will 
 be again," said the lawyer, guardedly. " In 
 this case, however, such a course would be 
 costly and uncertain. Mrs. Conway Avas 
 living with her husband up to the time of his 
 leaving home, she is living under his roof now 
 it would be difficult to prove that the 
 nephew had possessed or exercised any undue 
 influence or that the testator was not of sound 
 mind at the time of making the will. You 
 for instance could not come forward to throw 
 any doubts upon his sanity from your own ob- 
 servation, for the jury and the public would 
 alike ask what were you about to send out a 
 vessel like the Arikhama in charge of a per- 
 son whom you believed to be more or less of a 
 lunatic."
 
 The Hand of the Dead 89 
 
 " You could not say it," put in Mary, rising 
 to her feet. " Nor should I wish it. Gentle- 
 men, you need not trouble about me I dare 
 say Mr. Howard Conway will not turn me 
 out of this house while my mother is so ill 
 or until she is gone where there is no need of 
 any refuge." 
 
 "I will communicate with him at once," 
 said Mr. Mannington. " It is not at all likely, 
 especially as he inherits everything which 
 must be a great and unexpected thing for 
 him," he added. 
 
 " Then I need not detain you any longer," 
 said Mary, holding out her hand. 
 
 Mr. Lawson possessed himself of it. " For- 
 give me, my dear young lady," he said, kindly, 
 "but have you means for the moment? If 
 you have illness in the house and you spoke of 
 your mother " 
 
 " My mother is very ill, very, very ill," said
 
 go Wedlock 
 
 Mary. " She was an invalid when I married, 
 but the news of Captain Conway's death came 
 upon her without warning and brought on an- 
 other stroke, a very serious one. "We have not 
 much hope of her." 
 
 Her voice dropped away to what was little 
 more than a whisper. Mr. Lawson kept hold 
 of her hand and murmured consoling little 
 phrases ; Mary, however, was quite dry-eyed, 
 her grief and despair were too deep for ordi- 
 nary ways of sorrow. " You must let me see 
 you through this," he said at last. "Your 
 husband was in the service of my company for 
 many years and you must not hesitate to take 
 from me what is necessary to tide you over 
 this unlooked-for time. Have you formed any 
 idea or plans yet? But no of course you 
 have not. Who was to expect that such a will 
 would be left behind ? " 
 
 Mary looked up at him with her wonderful
 
 The Hand of the Dead 91 
 
 clear eyes. "I earned my living for years 
 before I was married," she said, simply. 
 " And I shall be able to earn it again. Just 
 now, of course, I am all out of reckoning 
 and can set about nothing. You are very 
 kind, Mr. Lawson but I have some money 
 left." 
 
 " I will supplement it," he said, hurriedly, 
 and tore himself away unable longer to bear 
 the dumb pain of her eyes and mouth. 
 
 At last she was left alone, alone to think 
 over the end to which her fine marriage had 
 brought her, to think that here she was in a 
 house which she had thought her own, but 
 which had been left away from her to one 
 whom her husband had always professed to 
 hate fiercely, penniless except for the few 
 pounds which she happened to have drawn 
 out of the bank before the news of the foun- 
 dering of the Arilchama had reached them.
 
 92 Wedlock 
 
 Well, she had wished, longed, prayed to be 
 free, and her wishes, longings and prayers had 
 been heard and answered. She was free, she 
 was a white slave no longer, she would never 
 again realize with a thrill of shuddering hor- 
 ror that she had sold herself into bondage, 
 into the worst and most hateful kind of bond- 
 age, that she had sold not only herself, her 
 body, but to all intents and purposes her very 
 soul. Well, it was all over now. She was 
 herself again, accountable to no one for her 
 actions, she was free of that unbearable chain, 
 of that hated union. The worldly dross for 
 which she had sacrificed herself had fallen 
 away like the links of the chain of fate and 
 she would have to begin at the lowest rung of 
 the ladder again. 
 
 Still she would be content. Every crust of 
 bread that she earned would be her own, and 
 sweet would be the taste thereof it would be
 
 The Hand of the Dead 93 
 
 better, far better to sweep a crossing and to 
 live contentedly on the pence earned by sweep- 
 ing it well, than to live in luxury earned by 
 the loss of all her womanly self-respect. There 
 came to her mind more times than once a 
 verse out of the Great Book " Better a din- 
 ner of herbs where love is than a stalled ox 
 and hatred therewith." 
 
 How true, how true, and yet the poor soul 
 above struggling with the rapids of life and 
 death had never seen the beauty of the dinner 
 of herbs, she had longed to be as the stalled 
 ox, believing that the smoothest pathways 
 must always be the most pleasant and the best 
 for us. Well, she had enjoyed her brief spell 
 of the stalled ox to the full and it was prob- 
 able that she would slip away over the great 
 barrier without ever knowing that there had 
 been hatred at all. And if that should be so, 
 Mary Conway felt that she would be able to
 
 94 
 
 Wedlock 
 
 face all the rest of her life fearlessly and with 
 a thankful spirit. 
 
 Late in the evening a messenger arrived 
 bringing a letter by hand from Mr. Lawson. 
 It read : 
 
 "DEAR MRS. CONWAY. I do not ask, I 
 do not seek to know the reason that your 
 husband left so strange and almost inhuman 
 a will behind him ; it is enough for me that 
 you are a woman, alone, young and in trouble. 
 Will you accept the enclosed as a gift from 
 one who knew your husband for many years 
 and who liked and respected him ? I beg you 
 to accept it as kindly as it is offered to you. 
 " Sincerely yours, 
 
 " HENRY LAWSON." 
 
 Enclosed with this letter was a check for a 
 hundred pounds. 
 
 It would be hard to describe Mary's feelings 
 that night. The kindness, the distant dignity 
 of the few words impressed her deeply. She
 
 The Hand of the Dead 95 
 
 never thought of refusing the kindly gift, so 
 welcome to save her from unheard-of horrors, 
 she only longed fiercely and passionately that 
 she might, nay could, would go and tell this 
 man everything, tell him the whole story of 
 her marriage and the cause pure and simple 
 why Captain Conway had left a cruel and 
 wholly unjust will behind him, a sinister blow 
 to strike her in a vulnerable part, and from 
 which she had no chance of defending herself. 
 
 She went to her bed that night with a fixed 
 intention of going in the morning to seek out 
 Mr. Lawson and to tell him everything, with a 
 determination that she would justify herself in 
 his eyes. 
 
 But morning brought different feelings ; in 
 the early dawn a change for the worse came 
 over Mrs. Hamilton and the nurse called Mary 
 from her bed believing that the end was nigh 
 at hand. And as she stood by the side of that
 
 96 Wedlock 
 
 poor, flickering, feeble light so soon to burn out 
 into nothingness so far as concerned this world, 
 a voice came to her telling her to do nothing, 
 to say nothing, the voice of a strange, curious, 
 wise instinct which said "You are free 
 don't fetter your freedom by troubling about 
 the past. With good intentions you did what 
 you thought and believed was for the best. 
 The sacrifice was made, served its purpose and 
 you are released. Do nothing. Accept the 
 kindness of this stranger, take it as it is offered, 
 endure all in silence. At the very worst his 
 suspicion, if he has one, is only a suspicion. 
 No good can come to you by blackening the 
 memory of a dead man. If you speak you will 
 but save your fair fame at the expense of his. 
 If he has been ungenerous to you, so spiteful 
 as to aim a blow at you from his sailor's 
 grave, do not retaliate by striking back at him 
 now. Best, far best to suffer in silence ; wisest,
 
 The Hand of the Dead 97 
 
 far wisest to cut yourself oif as completely as 
 may be from the mistaken past, to begin life 
 afresh on your own lines and as free as is pos- 
 sible from the influences which have domi- 
 nated you, hurt you, and poisoned your better 
 self heretofore. 
 
 Mary Con way knew that her instinct was a 
 wise one, that the strange mysterious voice 
 was that of a friend in the best sense of the 
 word. She made up her mind during those 
 few terrible hours of watching that she would 
 follow the advice which had come to her from 
 her inner self, that she would bury the past 
 and begin a new life with the day that she 
 turned her back upon the home of her brief 
 married life, the house which had been in no 
 sense a home to her. 
 
 And the following day Henry Lawson re- 
 ceived this note : 
 
 " I thank you with all my heart for your
 
 98 Wedlock 
 
 kind and generous gift. It will be my salva- 
 tion and will enable me to start myself afresh. 
 I am quite alone in the world now. My mother 
 died at five o'clock this afternoon. 
 
 " Yours, with deep gratitude, 
 
 " MARY CONWAY."
 
 CHAPTEE VII 
 
 LIFE ON NEW LINES 
 
 As soon as she could be quietly and decently 
 laid away Mrs. Hamilton was carried out of 
 the pretty villa in which she had enjoyed her 
 brief spell of prosperity, and then Mary made 
 her preparations for turning her back upon her 
 old life forever. 
 
 She was not obliged to leave the house with 
 undue haste, for Howard Conway wrote to 
 her as soon as he heard the news of his inher- 
 itance, telling her that the house was quite at 
 her disposal for a few weeks, until indeed she 
 had time to make her arrangements. Mary, 
 however, replied that if Mr. Conway would 
 send some one to take possession at eleven 
 o'clock on the following Monday morning she 
 
 99
 
 1 oo Wedlock 
 
 would be ready and that she would prefer to 
 give up possession, as she would be leaving the 
 house then. 
 
 Greatly to her relief Howard Conway did 
 not think it necessary to appear himself but 
 sent a young solicitor who treated the outgo- 
 ing widow with a curious mixture of condo- 
 lence and admiration such as would have made 
 a woman who knew the world better, exceed- 
 ingly angry. Upon Mary, however, this man- 
 ner had no effect. She had just passed through 
 the great tragedy of her life, she was face to 
 face with a great question " how to live in the 
 future " and a flippant young man with rather 
 bad manners had no more effect upon her than 
 she might have felt from a gnat humming to 
 and fro in the air. 
 
 She took nothing with her excepting such 
 things as had been absolutely her own, bought 
 with her own money, earned by her own labor.
 
 Life on New Lines 101 
 
 Howard Conway's friend was astonished to 
 find all the little woman's treasures which she 
 left lying about. 
 
 " But surely these are your own personal be- 
 longings, Mrs. Conway ? " he exclaimed, in his 
 surprise pointing to various photographs in 
 pretty frames which stood on a little table 
 near the drawing-room window. 
 
 "JSTo, they were not mine," she replied. 
 " They all belonged to Captain Conway and 
 of course, they go with the house." 
 
 "But my dear lady," and here he grew 
 quite affectionate in tone " surely, you are 
 interpreting the letter of the will too literally. 
 My friend Howard Conway is the last man in 
 the world to wish to be hard on a woman a 
 young woman his uncle's widow. He will 
 not expect or wish you to leave such purely 
 personal things as these behind." 
 
 " I prefer it," said Mary.
 
 1O2 Wedlock 
 
 " Most ladies In your circumstances would 
 have stripped tlie house," he persisted " and 
 would have left nothing but the bare chairs 
 and tables." 
 
 " Perhaps. But I am not one of those 
 ladies and besides, I wish to take nothing 
 away to remind me of of " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "That I once lived here," she said, with a 
 sudden flash of feeling, the first that she had 
 shown. 
 
 "Oh, well, of course if that is the way 
 the " he had been on the point of saying 
 " the cat jumps," but broke the homely simile 
 off short " if that is how you feel, Mrs. Con- 
 way, it is no use my suggesting anything else." 
 
 " But it is very kind of you to feel an inter- 
 est in me," said Mary, a smile breaking over 
 her face for the first time. " I shall never for- 
 get it. I thank you."
 
 Life on New Lines 103 
 
 A few minutes later she had passed out of 
 the house and away from her old life forever. 
 
 She had made her plans carefully with a 
 view to furthering her resources to the utter- 
 most, she had taken a single room in a respect- 
 able house in Bloomsbury. She was not des- 
 titute, for she had still nearly a hundred 
 pounds to call her own. Mrs. Hamilton's life 
 had been insured for a sum which had almost 
 covered the cost of her illness and burial, and 
 Mary had bought her mourning with a keen 
 eye to economy, in fact she had spent and 
 meant to spend nothing that she could possibly 
 avoid. She knew that if need be she could 
 live for a year on her little store and she 
 knew too that it was a totally different thing 
 to seek a living free and independent as she 
 was, to seeking it while tied and hampered 
 with an invalid mother. 
 
 But she did not find it an easy thing to
 
 Wedlock 
 
 drop into a pleasant, comfortable position such 
 as she wanted, by no means. For several 
 weeks she tramped to and fro, here and there, 
 always seeking something more or less indefi- 
 nite, a something which she found it difficult 
 to describe-in words. 
 
 Then she pulled herself up short and began 
 to think the situation out in a different way. 
 And she came to the conclusion that she could 
 not go on in this vague, indefinite way, that 
 she must make up her mind to follow a certain 
 course and she must follow it. The question 
 was what ? She went over all the openings 
 which she had already tried to follow up and 
 she came after much anxious cogitation to the 
 conclusion that there were only left to her 
 now, either of which she might take as her 
 metier and train herself to become proficient 
 in there were nursing and typewriting. 
 
 She enquired fully into the merits and de-
 
 Life on New Lines 105 
 
 merits of both. She found that she could not 
 properly qualify for a nurse under a training 
 of at least three years. Even then she would 
 not have got to the top of the tree and it was 
 more than likely that long before three years 
 had gone by she would have broken down, for 
 she was not physically or constitutionally an 
 especially strong person. If all the tales she 
 heard of hospital or infirmary training were 
 true, she felt that a month or six weeks would 
 about show her how fruitless it was for her to 
 attempt a career of which magnificent health 
 and nerve are the very first requisites. 
 
 So practically the career of a nurse was dis- 
 posed of and put on one side as an impossible 
 one. There only remained then open to her 
 that of a typewriter. 
 
 The accounts which she gathered of this 
 way of making a living were more hopeful. 
 She would pay ten guineas to be taught the
 
 106 Wedlock 
 
 trade and six months would see her in a fair 
 way of earning a decent living. She could, 
 until she was proficient, live very cheaply and 
 quietly in her modest little room, and she 
 would have every interest in forcing herself 
 ahead as quickly as possible. There was noth- 
 ing in the manipulation of a delicate and intel- 
 ligent machine (this was the way that a young 
 girl, whose acquaintance she made in a tea- 
 shop, spoke of her typewriter,) which could 
 be in any way revolting to her, or which was 
 in any sense beyond her powers.* 
 
 " And, of course," said the girl, " if you gD 
 in for shorthand as well, you just double your 
 value from the very start." 
 
 " Is it difficult ? " Mary asked, rather diffi- 
 dently. 
 
 " Yes, it is difficult," the girl replied, " kit 
 by no means insurmountable. And the ad- 
 vantages are enormous. Oh, it is a grand life
 
 Life on New Lines 107 
 
 for a woman. Any woman of average intel- 
 ligence can make a living at it and a woman 
 whose intelligence is above the average can do 
 more than make a living. She can command 
 her own price. Then it is a free life ! I mean 
 in this way. If a woman goes in for nursing, 
 she needs years and years of training and 
 goodness only knows whether she will prove 
 herself a really skilled nurse at the end of it. 
 She needs superhuman strength, endless pa- 
 tience, infinite tact ; and for what ? To earn 
 at best two guineas a week, to be treated a 
 little better than a servant, to be always in a 
 position that is entirely temporary. A typist 
 on the other hand, especially if she is also a 
 stenographer, can easily make a hundred a 
 year, provided that she is really good at her 
 work. She has her fixed hours, her fixed holi- 
 days. She has always her Sundays and her 
 Saturday afternoons. All the tact that is neo
 
 io8 Wedlock 
 
 essary for her is to mind her own business 
 and hold her tongue. She has her evenings to 
 herself and, if she likes, she can get extra work 
 then so as to put by an extra sum to her ordi- 
 nary earnings for her summer holiday. It is a 
 fine life for a woman there is no mistake 
 about that." 
 
 The result of this chance meeting and con- 
 versation with an utter stranger was that 
 Mary went straight away to a certain school 
 of typewriting and at once entered herself as 
 a pupil for the entire course. And then she 
 set herself to work. 
 
 She was an apt pupil. Her well-balanced 
 mind, tinged by disappointment and trouble 
 but unruffled by the greater passions of life, 
 quickly grasped the intricacies of the curious 
 dots and dashes which seem so mysterious and 
 confusing to the majority of mortals. She 
 made rapid progress, and before the six
 
 Life on New Lines 109 
 
 months, which she had allowed herself for her 
 pupilage, had come to an end, she found her- 
 self established in the office of a small firm of 
 brokers at a salary of fifteen shillings a week. 
 
 It was, of course, but a beginning. Still it 
 was a beginning and Mary had accepted it 
 gladly, both for what it brought her and as an 
 earnest of better things to come. And each 
 evening when she had left the office and had 
 had tea at the nearest X. Y. Z. shop, she went 
 off to the school and worked hard at her short- 
 hand. 
 
 A few months more saw her in different cir- 
 cumstances, for she left the firm of brokers and 
 engaged herself to a lawyer of large practice 
 who paid her thirty shillings a week and 
 treated her pleasantly into the bargain. After 
 nearly a year in this office her employer sud- 
 denly died and she was thrown out of work. 
 
 Not that she was destitute by no means.
 
 l io Wedlock 
 
 She had lived carefully, almostly frugally, 
 keeping always in mind the possibility of a 
 rainy day in time to come. She took a week's 
 holiday and spent it at Dovercourt, where she 
 sat by the glorious sea, basking in golden sun- 
 shine and the keen brisk air, revelling in 
 novels and drinking in a full supply of health 
 and strength which would last her for at least 
 a year to come. 
 
 Among the books she had taken down with 
 her was one which had been lent to her by her 
 one intimate friend, the girl, Lucy Chalmers, 
 who had first given her information about the 
 life and career of a typist. Mary had been 
 three golden days by the sea ere she began to 
 read it it was called "A Lover's Creed of 
 Love." 
 
 It is almost impossible for me to tell the ef- 
 fect that this story had upon Mary Conway. 
 It was a story of passion passionately written.
 
 Life on New Lines ill 
 
 It was fervid, full of life and stir and color, 
 and it was clean and wholesome in tone 
 withal. It was unmistakably the work of a 
 man rich in imagination who was yet full of 
 common sense and sound judgment. It fasci- 
 nated, enthralled, amazed her. She went to 
 bed and dreamed of it. 
 
 She read it over again several times during 
 the rest of her week's holiday, leaving the 
 other books unread after the first glance into 
 their, to her, meaningless pages ; during those 
 few days she lived with it. 
 
 Then she went back to London. She was 
 feeling stronger and more really free just then 
 than she had ever been in all her life before. 
 She was independent, she stood face to face 
 with the world it is true, but it was no longer 
 a world of which she was afraid. She stood 
 firm upon her own feet. She owed not a 
 penny to any man.
 
 112 Wedlock 
 
 Her first errand was to go to a great shop 
 where typewriters are sold 
 
 "I wish to put my name down on your 
 books," she said. 
 
 " As typist ? " 
 
 " And stenographer." 
 
 " What is your speed ? " 
 
 " One hundred and twenty," said Mary, with 
 quiet assurance such as carried conviction with 
 it. 
 
 " You are used to our machines ? " 
 
 " Yes I have used no other." 
 
 " "Well, if you will give me your name and 
 address, I will let you know if anything suit- 
 able offers itself." 
 
 "Thank you. Mrs. Conway, 201 Welling- 
 ton Street, Bloomsbury." 
 
 The clerk wrote down the name and address 
 and Mary turned to go. "By the by," he 
 said, " I don't know if you wouldn't be just the
 
 Life on New Lines 113 
 
 one for a gentleman now on our list. Let me 
 see," turning over the pages of a big book 
 "'Lady not young girl quiet must have 
 speed over a hundred.' You might go and see 
 this gentleman. I'll give you a card. It is 
 Mr. Alan Stacey, the novelist." 
 
 "The author of 'A Lover's Creed of 
 Love ' ! " cried Mary, breathlessly.
 
 CHAPTER YIII 
 
 ALAN STACEY, THE NOVELIST 
 
 IT was with a beating heart filled with 
 nervousness and apprehension that Mary Con- 
 way found herself waiting at the door of Alan 
 Stacey, the novelist's house in Fulham. 
 
 It was evidently a somewhat old house and 
 was enclosed in a high-walled garden. It was 
 at the gate of this garden-door that she waited 
 patiently after giving a humble little pull at 
 the handle of the bell such as she would not 
 have given at the door of a duke. At last she 
 rang again and then her summons attracted 
 attention. She heard footsteps on the other 
 side of the door and then it was flung open 
 and a man in the usual decorous garb of a 
 servant stood to hear what she wanted. 
 
 114
 
 Alan Stacey, the Novelist 115* 
 
 "Does Mr. Alan Stacey live here?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Is he at home ? " 
 
 " Mr. Stacey is not out, ma'am," the man 
 replied, " but he does not usually see any one 
 at this hour. Mr. Stacey is in his study, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " Still I think he will see me," said Mary, 
 eagerly, " if you will give him this card." 
 
 ""Walk this way, ma'am," said the man, 
 taking the card between his finger and thumb 
 in the peculiar manner of a well-trained 
 servant. 
 
 He led the way down a broad flagged path- 
 way which led to the house. It was covered 
 by a kind of veranda and on either side a 
 charming garden spread until bounded by the 
 old wall. It was a charming garden, rich in 
 ancient, mossy turf and gay with many flow-
 
 Ii6 Wedlock 
 
 ers. All manner of creepers entwined them- 
 selves about the pillars which supported the 
 sheltering roof overhead, and great hydran- 
 geas bloomed at the bases of them. 
 
 The house was long and low, had long win- 
 dows opening like doors, and a wide veranda 
 running its entire length. This veranda was 
 paved with brilliant colored tiles on which 
 were flung here and there rich-looking rugs. 
 Huge, easy chairs, wicker tables and a ham- 
 mock made a pleasant lounge, and there were 
 flowering plants everywhere. 
 
 " "Will you take a seat here, ma'am ? " said 
 the man, indicating a large chair. "I will 
 enquire if Mr. Stacey will see you." 
 
 Mary sat down and he disappeared into the 
 house. She sat drinking in the pleasant scene, 
 doubly pleasant after the arid stretches of 
 Bloomsbury bricks and mortar to which she 
 was accustomed. To her it seemed like a syl-
 
 Alan Stacey, the Novelist 117 
 
 van retreat far, far away from the rush and 
 turmoil of cities where strife lives. She could 
 hear her first acquaintance the servant speak- 
 ing and a man's tones answering. 
 
 " All right. I'll come out," said the man's 
 voice. 
 
 The next moment a tall man in light grey 
 clothing came out by the window. . . . 
 Mary was in Alan Stacey's presence. 
 
 " Mrs. Con way," he said, looking at the card 
 in his hand and then at her. 
 
 Mary sprang to her feet. " Yes, I am Mrs. 
 Con way," she said, tremulously. "Messrs. 
 Bloomingby thought that I should suit you." 
 
 " As a typist ? " 
 
 " And stenographer," she added, quickly. 
 
 " Pray sit down," said Alan Stacey, kindly, 
 and himself pulled a chair near enough to talk 
 with ease. " What is your speed as a short- 
 hand writer ? "
 
 li8 Wedlock 
 
 " A hundred and twenty." 
 
 "Good! You look intelligent which is 
 more to the point. Have you been with any 
 author before ? " 
 
 " No," answered Mary, " I have been with a 
 solicitor and that, of course, was work need- 
 ing great care and precision." 
 
 " Ah, yes. And why did you leave him ? " 
 
 " I did not leave him," she replied ; " unfor- 
 tunately for me he died." 
 
 " I see. Do you think you would like my 
 kind of work ? " 
 
 " Yes," said she, promptly. 
 
 " I am not very easy to work with. I'm as 
 crochetty as most other literary men," Mr. 
 Stacey said. " I have just got rid of a man, 
 an excellent fellow, for no reason than that he 
 sat on the edge of his chair and waited. I 
 would have forgiven him many things but his 
 waiting became oppressive it killed every idea
 
 Alan Stacey, the Novelist 119 
 
 I had. Before that I had a young lady. She 
 knew Shakespeare by heart, and could quote 
 Xenophon but she would mend my copy as 
 she went on " 
 
 "Oh, how dared she?" Mary burst out. 
 Mr. Stacey looked at her with a vague sense of 
 amusement. " I assure you Miss well, never 
 mind her name, it is immaterial but Miss 
 Blank we will call her thought very small 
 potatoes of me. I can't write by hand, I've 
 got writer's cramp and I have always a terri- 
 ble lot of work in hand. If I had gone on 
 with Miss Blank, I should have been as dead 
 as a doornail by this time. She could not do 
 my work without ironing it out as she went 
 along, so that every vestige of style and indi- 
 viduality was eliminated completely." 
 
 Mary gave a little gasp. "But I thought 
 she took down what you dictated," she said, 
 almost breathlessly.
 
 1 2o Wedlock 
 
 " Yes, but if she saw what she thought was 
 an error she was always kind enough to mend 
 it for me," said Alan Stacey, smiling at the re- 
 membrance. " She knew just a little too much 
 for me she must have been over-educated or 
 something. My last helper had on the con- 
 trary no ideas. He had a notebook and a 
 sharp-pointed lead pencil. When I was in 
 form he was excellent. When I had to get a 
 certain amount of copy turned out by a cer- 
 tain time and I hadn't so much as the ghost of 
 an idea in my head, he used to sit on the edge 
 of a chair waiting till I did get an idea. If 
 he would have read the newspaper, gone to 
 sleep, walked about the garden if he would 
 have yawned even I should not have minded ; 
 but he never did. He once said it was all in 
 the day's work whether he worked or waited. 
 So when I couldn't work, he waited. I had to 
 get rid of him. I found him an excellent
 
 Alan Stacey, the Novelist 121 
 
 billet and swore I would never have another 
 helper of any kind. Then my hand came in 
 and said ' No, I'm hanged if you shall use me. 
 I'm delicate.' So I sent to Bloomingby's. So 
 now, Mrs. Cosway, you see what kind of man 
 I am to deal with nervous, irritable, almost 
 eccentric." 
 
 "I am not afraid," said Mary, smiling. 
 This man was wholly delightful to her, sur- 
 rounded by a halo of romance, still young, 
 strong, unconventional and wholly human. 
 
 "Have you seen any of my work?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " I have read the ' Lover's Creed ' a dozen 
 times at least," she answered. 
 
 " Ah ! Then you will to a certain extent 
 understand me. I should need you from ten 
 to five each day well, not on Saturday after- 
 noons, that goes without saying." 
 
 " I am ready," said Mary.
 
 122 Wedlock 
 
 " You would lunch here By the by, where 
 do you live ? " 
 
 " In Bloomsbury." 
 
 " That's a far cry." 
 
 " I should seek for rooms in this neighbor- 
 hood," she said, quickly. " I am not wedded to 
 my present quarters." 
 
 " Still better. You are married, Mrs. Cos- 
 way ? " 
 
 "My name is Conway," she said, gently. 
 " I am a widow." 
 
 " Oh ! forgive me. One likes to know every- 
 thing. Have you children ? " 
 
 "None nor a single relation in all the 
 world." 
 
 " Poor little soul ! " The words slipped out 
 unconsciously, as if he were thinking aloud. 
 " Then about terms ? " 
 
 " I will take what you are accustomed to 
 pay," said Mary.
 
 Alan Stacey, the Novelist 123 
 
 " I gave let us say two guineas a week," 
 he returned, hurriedly. 
 
 " But, won't you try me first ? " said Mary, 
 rather taken aback by this unceremonious way 
 of arranging the matter. 
 
 "No no your speed is a hundred and 
 twenty and you look as if you would just suit 
 me." 
 
 " But my references ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Mrs. Con way " said the novelist, turning 
 and looking directly and fixedly at her, " I 
 would just as soon not see your references. I 
 know too well the lies one tells when one 
 wants to pass some one on to one's friends. I 
 know too well what they are worth. Your 
 last employer died you tell me " 
 
 " But it mightn't be true," she faltered. " I 
 would really rather " 
 
 "Do you want a character with me?" he 
 broke in.
 
 12 4 
 
 Wedlock 
 
 "But everybody knows you," she cried, 
 ingeniously. "Everybody has read your 
 books." 
 
 " I wish they did I should make a decent 
 income then. !N"o, no, Mrs. Con way, I know 
 what I am and what I'm not. I know my 
 own limitations and exactly what I am 
 capable of. It's my business to read character. 
 You may not suit me as a secretary but only 
 time can show and prove that. So far as you 
 yourself are concerned, honesty is the domi- 
 nant note of your life." 
 
 Mary could not help starting. Alan Stacey 
 continued, " You give yourself away continu- 
 ally because you cannot conceal your real 
 feelings. In a sense you are bad for your- 
 self because you cannot dissemble. You 
 couldn't tell a downright lie if you tried and 
 you are so honest that you wouldn't try." 
 
 " I do hate lies," said Mary, in a tone as if
 
 Alan Stacey, the Novelist 12$ 
 
 such a fact were rather to her detriment than 
 otherwise. 
 
 "Let me look at your hand. Yes, it is 
 capable, precise, upright and highly nervous. 
 We shall be able to work together very well, 
 I am certain. At all events, let us try to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 "Mr. Stacey," said Mary, rising as she 
 spoke. " I will do my very best." 
 
 ""We shall get on splendidly," he replied, 
 holding out his hand. " I am doing a particu- 
 larly difficult piece of work just now, a most 
 difficult subject in which the handling is 
 everything, the whole difference between suc- 
 cess and failure. I was writing with my fist 
 yes, doubled up so in despair when my 
 servant told me you were here. Look at 
 this " spreading out his hand and showing 
 an angry swollen red ridge of muscle which 
 rose between the first and second fingers and
 
 126 Wedlock 
 
 extended beyond the wrist. "That means 
 the intensest and most exquisite agony it 
 seems to disappear above the wrist and to 
 rise again in the under side of the arm, from 
 where it runs in a rope of pain to the very 
 arm-pit." 
 
 "It must be horrible," said Mary. "Are 
 you working now ? " 
 
 " I was when you came." 
 
 " Why don't you let me begin right away, 
 sir ? " she ventured to say. 
 
 He looked at her again with the same 
 quick, alert glance as before. " Don't call me 
 ' sir,' " he said, half amused and half irritable. 
 
 " I always called Mr. Desmond so," she said, 
 meekly. 
 
 " He had an office and a lot of clerks, that 
 was different. I don't require that kind of 
 thing. One c sir ' would upset me for a morn- 
 ing. Come into my study. I like you for
 
 Alan Stacey, the Novelist 127 
 
 tackling the work straight away. "We'll try 
 how it goes." 
 
 Mary followed him into the study, a long, 
 low-ceiled room with many books, a few pic- 
 tures, some guns, fishing-rods, golf-clubs, two 
 luxurious sofa-lounges, and half-a-dozen capa- 
 cious chairs. A rough terrier dog lay before 
 the open window and a big Angora cat brin- 
 dled like a bulldog was in possession of a fur 
 rug before the empty fireplace. It was a 
 revelation to Mary Conway she had never 
 seen such a room in all her life before. 
 
 She established herself at a table and they 
 began. She was amazed at the ease and rapid- 
 ity with which Alan Stacey poured out his 
 story, taking it up at the last written word 
 and spinning it out in the most vivid and in- 
 teresting way, almost indeed acting it all. So 
 for nearly two hours they worked without a 
 hitch, until the servant came to say that
 
 128 Wedlock 
 
 luncheon was served. Alan Stacey drew a 
 long breath and rose to his feet. 
 
 " Come to lunch," he said. " I used to have 
 ideas about not interrupting the flow of genius 
 but I take my meals at regular times now 
 it pays better all round. Do you think you've 
 got all that ? " 
 
 " I think so," said Mary. " If you will allow 
 me, I will transcribe it after lunch so that you 
 can see for yourself."
 
 CHAPTEE IX 
 
 THE INTERPRETER 
 
 To Mary's surprise the table was only laid 
 for two persons. It was essentially a man's 
 table, it was small and was spread with a nice 
 clean cloth and serviettes ; its dominant note 
 was a cruet-stand. 
 
 " Take that seat," said Alan Stacey, with a 
 gesture to a chair. " It will be a simple lunch, 
 I warn you. If I eat a big meal now, I am 
 no good for the rest of the day. Some people 
 like a regular dinner at midday / believe it 
 means apoplexy if you only eat enough and 
 sleep soon enough afterward. What have you 
 to-day, John ? " 
 
 " An omelette, sir," said John " and cold 
 
 beef and salad." 
 
 139
 
 130 Wedlock 
 
 " A luncheon for a king, if the omelette and 
 salad are properly made, don't you think so, 
 Mrs. Conway ? 5<l said Alan Stacey. 
 
 "I do," said Mary, wondering whether she 
 ought to be honest and say that a dish of 
 scrambled eggs was the nearest approach to 
 an omelette that she had ever tasted in her 
 life. 
 
 " I have a little Frenchwoman who makes 
 both to perfection," he went on. " Some peo- 
 ple like to make a salad at table I don't. I 
 know several delightful houses where it is the 
 task of the young ladies to dress the salad, and 
 they do it with a diffidence which results in 
 loathliness. Tell Maltide that this omelette is 
 excellent, John." 
 
 " Very good, sir." 
 
 Mary ate her portion and allowed herself to 
 be persuaded into taking a little more. But 
 she refused wine and persisted in taking only
 
 The Interpreter 131 
 
 water. "I must keep my head clear," she 
 said, firmly. " I want to do your work and 
 myself justice this afternoon." 
 
 Alan Stacey tried hard to overrule her be- 
 cause as he said they ought to have a mild 
 celebration of their first day's work and their 
 first meal together. It is true that he liked 
 and respected her the better that she held 
 firmly to her point. 
 
 "When the book is finished, Mr. Stacey," 
 she said, " if you then think my work worth 
 celebrating, I will do it with pleasure. As yet 
 you don't know whether I have not made the 
 most fearful hash of your work or whether 
 I may not turn out to be ten times more 
 aggravating than either Miss Blank or 
 the good gentleman who did not mind wait- 
 ing." 
 
 " I don't think so," he said in a tone of con- 
 viction.
 
 132 Wedlock 
 
 His instinct proved to be correct, as the in- 
 stinct of a man who has given his life up to 
 the study of character usually is. After a de- 
 lightful luxurious half-hour of chat, Mary 
 went back to the study and began to work, 
 and by five o'clock had finished her transcrip- 
 tion of the morning's work. Alan Stacey, who 
 was as keenly interested in the result of the 
 experiment as she was, came in from the 
 garden and read over the fair typewritten 
 pages. He did not speak till he had read to 
 the end. 
 
 " Mrs. Con way," he said then " you are a 
 perfect treasure. Can you keep it up ? " 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " You have taken me down literally, word 
 for word, point for point. You have caught 
 the exact spirit of my idea Mrs. Conway, if 
 you can keep it up, we shall get on splen- 
 didly."
 
 The Interpreter 133 
 
 She had flushed up scarlet in her excitement 
 and suspense and Alan Stacey looking at her 
 said to himself that surely his star had been in 
 the ascendant when such a dainty creature 
 had suddenly fallen from the skies in lieu of 
 the bulldog features and staring goggle eyes 
 of the patient individual who had but just left 
 him. 
 
 " I am so glad," she said, with her pretty, 
 shy air, " so proud to be able to help you. I'll 
 try hard never to be anything but your inter- 
 preter." 
 
 He laughed aloud and held out his hand. 
 " That's a good name for you, Mrs. Conway," 
 he said. "I can never say 'my typist does 
 this ' or * my stenographer does that.' You're 
 not my secretary and it would sound preten- 
 tious to call you so. But ' interpreter.' That's 
 a splendid name for you. I shall always call 
 you by it."
 
 Wedlock 
 
 And so lie did. She went that very even- 
 ing and looked at various rooms in the neigh- 
 borhood, fixing on some in a quaint out of the 
 world nook which they call " Parson's Green." 
 I don't mean all that intricate bewilderment 
 of small featureless little streets which lie 
 between Fulham Palace and the cemetery, 
 but a corner on the other side of the railway 
 line, a corner which then was still rejoicing in 
 tall old trees and spacious wide-fronted houses, 
 such as kept an air of dignity about them 
 which came as a surprise to the stranger wan- 
 dering through the neighborhood. 
 
 And then began a long spell of hard work, 
 yet Avork that was intensely enjoyable in 
 character. It is almost impossible adequately 
 to describe the effect which this way of earn- 
 ing her living had upon Mary Conway. She 
 was still quite young, little more than a girl, 
 and during all her early years romance and
 
 The Interpreter 135" 
 
 the joy of life had never had any chance of 
 growing and flourishing within her. 
 
 There is nothing of romance about the life 
 of a board-school mistress, more especially 
 when under the continual influence of a 
 mother who never forgot her gentility or that 
 her daughter was the child of a gentleman. 
 The board-school mistress who can love and 
 be loved again by a young man whose sphere 
 is the same as her own, a young man whose 
 aims and ambitions are on a level with her 
 own, can revel in romance as entirely as the 
 hero of a novel or the lord of the manor. A 
 young girl may spend her life in the stuffy 
 class-room of the state schools and yet invest 
 her lover with all the tender and idyllic ro- 
 mance of a knight of old ; but if she is cut off 
 by class-grade from intercourse with those 
 men among whom she is thrown by circum- 
 stances, all the romance which may be in her
 
 1 36 Wedlock 
 
 heart is of necessity bottled up for sheer want 
 of an outlet. 
 
 Mary Conway, frail and delicate of being 
 as she was, gentle woman to her finger tips, a 
 girl in whom, all the signs of good breeding 
 were present to a very marked degree, was of 
 a nature in which romance was indigenous, 
 and until the time when she became associated 
 in work with Alan Stacey, the novelist, no sort 
 of outlet had afforded itself, and all the 
 natural love in her heart had been pent up 
 until it was filled nigh to bursting and was 
 ready to overflow at the first kind word from 
 a sympathetic soul, at the first touch of a kind 
 hand, at the first glance of a pair of magnetic 
 eyes. 
 
 In Alan Stacey, Mary found not an em- 
 ployer but an idol. From the first day she 
 worshipped him. I know that it is not a com- 
 monly accepted idea that a woman should love
 
 The Interpreter 137 
 
 a man at first sight. In a sense she did not do 
 so ; and yet, she idolized him ! The possibility 
 that one day she might be something more to 
 Alan Stacey than his interpreter never for a 
 moment entered her head. But she loved him 
 with a dim, far-off, almost a religious feeling. 
 He was so brilliantly clever both in his work 
 for where were such vivid, brilliant, haunting 
 human books to be found as those which bore 
 his name ? and in himself. There were times 
 when he worked at fever heat untiringly, rest- 
 lessly, almost passionately, times when the fit 
 was on him when he almost wore her out call- 
 ing on her to come early and to stay late, times 
 when they snatched their meals and when she 
 went home to her bed dog-tired and brain 
 weary. 
 
 Yet always with the same charm and sweet- 
 ness of way. " Mrs. Conway, I must get on 
 with this while the idea is alive in me You'll
 
 138 Wedlock 
 
 help me through it, won't you ? " or " Need 
 you go ? I know it's time, but cannot we take 
 a little holiday when it's done ? Surely it's 
 best to make hay while the sun shines." 
 
 At such times Mary Conway would willingly 
 rather have died than have failed him ! At 
 others he would laze through the days, letting 
 his work slip into brilliant easy gossip, telling 
 her his ideas, his hopes, his aspirations, making 
 her look over his great collection of stamps, 
 help to arrange his autographs, discussing fur- 
 niture or the next smart little tea-party that 
 he meant to give, and apparently wholly un- 
 conscious that she took any more interest in 
 him than the man who waited had done. 
 
 " What was your father ? " he asked her sud- 
 denly between the pauses of his work one day 
 when Christmas was drawing near. 
 
 "A clergyman he was curate of Elphin- 
 stowe," she replied.
 
 The Interpreter 139 
 
 " Ah ! you were young when he died ? " 
 
 " Yes quite a child." 
 
 " And your mother ? " 
 
 " She died after I was married." 
 
 " 1 see ! Forgive me for asking but were 
 you long married ? Well, of course, you 
 couldn't have been, you are still so young. 
 But did you lose " 
 
 " I lost my husband only a few months after 
 our marriage," Mary said, rising suddenly from 
 her place at the little table where she worked 
 and going to the fire, where she stood nervously 
 holding her hand out to the warmth and keep- 
 ing her face half turned away from him. 
 
 "He was he was I mean was he was 
 he" 
 
 " He was a sailor, captain of one of the Eed 
 Kiver Line of Steamers," said Mary, almost 
 curtly. " He was drowned." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. "It must
 
 140 Wedlock 
 
 have been a great shock to you," he said at 
 at last. He was busily occupied with a paper 
 knife and a slip of note-paper, and spoke in a 
 studiously indifferent tone as if they were dis- 
 cussing some question absolutely impersonal to 
 both of them. 
 
 "It killed my mother," said Mary, still 
 warming her hands. 
 
 " And you ? " he rapped out the question in 
 a strange, breathless fashion. 
 
 Mary looked aside at him. " Why do you 
 ask me this, Mr. Stacey ? " she asked, brusquely. 
 " I was beginning to be happy to forget all 
 the horrid past. I'll tell you and then never, 
 I entreat of you ? speak of it again. I sold my- 
 self because my mother was ill and because 
 she yearned to be well-off. I was honest with 
 him and he professed so much. I told him I 
 did not love him and he took me. Our 
 marriage was a failure, a most dismal failure.
 
 The Interpreter 141 
 
 I was wretched I hated and despised him. 
 He was bitter and mean and vindictive toward 
 me. My poor little mother was the only one 
 who got any sort of satisfaction out of the 
 bargain and she did not have it long, poor soul, 
 for the news of the loss of the Arikkama 
 killed her, and it was as well, for he left every 
 penny away from me. As for me I won't 
 pretend to be better than I am ; I won't sham ; 
 I'll tell you the truth ; I thanked God when I 
 found that he was gone. Yes, I did, for I 
 would have put myself in the river before I 
 would have lived with him again." 
 
 " He was older than you ? " 
 
 " Many years. He is dead and they say we 
 should never speak ill of the dead. I can't 
 help it. He was a brute ; only a few weeks 
 after we were married he struck me. Oh! 
 why did you ask me these questions ? I had 
 almost forgotten at least I did not always
 
 142 Wedlock 
 
 think of it as I did at first. Why did you ask 
 me?" 
 
 With two strides Alan Stacey was by her 
 side. "My dear, my dear, shall I tell you 
 why I asked you ? " he cried. " Because I had 
 a vital interest in wanting to know. I've al- 
 ways had a sort of feeling that you belonged 
 to that dead husband of yours, that he stood 
 between us, keeping us more widely apart 
 than if all the world stood between us. Can't 
 you understand that I wanted to know that 
 I Oh! Mary, child don't you understand 
 that I love you and I cannot live without 
 you ? "
 
 CHAPTEK X 
 
 A NEW ARRANGEMENT 
 
 WHEN Alan Stacey had once broken the 
 ice sufficiently to have told his love to Mary 
 Conway, he did not, by any means, let the 
 grass grow under his feet. Mary drew back a 
 little; partly because the pleasure of being 
 betrothed to the man of her heart, the man 
 of her brightest and most fervent admiration, 
 was very great. It was natural enough. 
 Her first engagement had been a dry-as-dust 
 business, an arrangement which was altogether 
 in the light of a bargain. There was no bar- 
 gain between her and Alan Stacey, only the 
 sweet and unspoken bargain of trust and 
 affection, mingled with the Aspect and ad- 
 miration which the one had for the 
 
 143
 
 144 Wedlock 
 
 There was no question between them as to 
 whether he would give her a dress allowance, 
 or as to what housekeeping money she would 
 have to spend ; there was no question as to 
 whether she would be able to do her duty to 
 him. No, they loved each other, and that was 
 enough for both. 
 
 " But," he urged, " there is no reason why 
 we should wait. We have nothing to wait 
 for. You have no relations, and mine do not 
 interfere with me. As to your vague and in- 
 definite suggestion about clothes well, I don't 
 know much about ladies' dresses, but it seems 
 to me that you can get a couple of new frocks 
 in a week, and that when we come home again 
 you can buy as many garments as you find 
 you will want. Don't, when we have both 
 been lonely and wretched apart, don't let our 
 happiness wait for anything so paltry as 
 clothes. Let us be married at once."
 
 " But it seems so soon," said Mary. 
 
 " Not at all. "We cannot possibly pull it off 
 under a fortnight, and we know each other so 
 well. There is nothing like working together 
 for getting to know somebody." 
 
 " But the story ? " she urged. " We must 
 finish the story." 
 
 Alan Stacey looked grave for the first time. 
 " Yes, I had forgotten the story. Little 
 woman, what a business head you have. I 
 promised it for the end of the month, didn't 
 I?" 
 
 " Yes, you did." 
 
 " Yes, I should like to finish the story ; but, 
 perhaps," cheerfully, " if we were to push on 
 we might be able to manage it." 
 
 "There is still half of it to do." 
 
 "And I shall want you. I can't let you 
 spend all your days at the old typewriter now. 
 I wonder if I could work with anybody else ? "
 
 146 Wedlock 
 
 "You are not going to try," said Mary 
 speaking in decided tones, for the first time. 
 
 " Is there no way in which one could ease 
 you a little ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. Let me have a good typist in the 
 afternoon, and I can dictate the work off very 
 much more quickly than doing it myself. 
 But I don't see why I can't work just as usual. 
 "What difference is there ? The fact that I 
 know you love me need not turn me lazy all 
 at once." 
 
 "JSTo, nothing could do that. But I shall 
 want you more with me. You forget that up 
 to now I have done my morning's work and 
 have been free for the rest of the day, and 
 you, poor little soul, have sat here fagging 
 your heart out, as I don't mean to let you do 
 when we are married. Of course I would 
 rather work with you because you are you, 
 and you know my thoughts almost as they
 
 A New Arrangement 147 
 
 come; you interpret me to perfection. But, 
 at the same time, I shall want more of your 
 society than I have had in the past." 
 
 " I see no way," said Mary, " excepting, as 
 I suggested, a typist who will work at my dic- 
 tation." 
 
 Eventually she gave way, and consented to 
 be married as soon as the proper arrange- 
 ments could be made. It was all so different 
 to her last marriage. Then, everything had 
 been arranged for her; now, everything was 
 arranged so as to fall in with her slightest 
 wish. Her first husband had had very little 
 to 'offer her, when put in comparison with 
 Alan Stacey. Captain Conway had been 
 elderly, rough, plain, and only compara- 
 tively well-off. He had demanded impossi- 
 ble things, and when he discovered that his 
 desires were impossible of gratification, his 
 love for the girl whom he had sworn to pro-
 
 148 Wedlock 
 
 tect and cherish had been curiously inter- 
 mingled with an absolute hatred. His was 
 the kind of nature which to begin with says 
 " I will teach you to love me," and afterward, 
 " If I cannot teach you to love me, I will kill 
 you!" His was the kind of nature which 
 says " If I cannot bend, I will break ; " the 
 nature which looks at every situation of life 
 from its own standpoint, and judges all the 
 world entirely by its own doings. It is al- 
 ways this kind of nature which is inherently 
 dominant and essentially domineering. And 
 how different was Alan Stacey. He, gifted, 
 intellectual and brilliant, was content to lay 
 everything at the feet of the woman he loved 
 all the fame he had won, the position he 
 had made, the wealth he had amassed. His 
 desire was not to be his wife's master but her 
 knight; not to feel that he was conferring 
 honor and status upon her, but to assume al-
 
 A New Arrangement 149 
 
 ways that in giving herself to him, she was 
 laying him under an everlasting and delight- 
 ful obligation. 
 
 It was but natural that Mary was not only 
 filled with love but with a boundless and un- 
 bounded admiration. This was the man at 
 whose feet she would have been content to sit 
 for the rest of her life, not daring to lift her 
 eyes higher than his knees. This was her 
 king among men, gifted and blessed with the 
 right royal inheritance of genius. This man 
 who asked so little, who gave so much, was 
 not one who had power only over a handful of 
 men. No, the name with which he was en- 
 dowed was one which was known, and known 
 approvingly, throughout the world; known 
 wherever the English language was spoken; 
 nay, more than known, for it was loved. 
 
 I do not wish to portray the character of 
 Alan Stacey as that of a perfect being; in-
 
 150 Wedlock 
 
 deed, I must own, what Mary had found out 
 very early in her knowledge of him, that his be- 
 setting sin was idleness, which is the besetting 
 sin of most spinners of stories. He was beset 
 too with idleness of two kinds, the genuine 
 and ordinary sort and the idleness which afflicts 
 the brain-worker. It is only your nobodies 
 who are thoroughly industrious in art ; great 
 genius is always subject to what is usually 
 called " idleness," in other words to brain-fag. 
 To my mind the most pathetic record that we 
 have of George Eliot, is where she conveys in 
 a letter to a friend that she has no natural de- 
 sire for work, and has to flog her brain con- 
 tinually so that she may get her promised 
 task completed in time. She too speaks of it 
 as idleness. And with that same kind of idle- 
 ness Alan Stacey was continually afflicted, as 
 he was with a real love of doing nothing. 
 In times gone by he had many a day sat
 
 New Arrangement 
 
 down to work in the morning, saying, " Now, 
 Mrs. Con way, I have got to work to-day; I 
 have got to work hard. Now, you keep me 
 up to it." And no sooner had Mary inscribed 
 half a dozen lines in her notebook, than he 
 would get up and say, "By Jove, there's an- 
 other robin building its nest in that holly 
 bush ! " or some such remark, which was inter- 
 esting enough in itself, but which did not help 
 upon its way the story then in hand. And 
 often and often Mary had had all her work 
 cut out to keep him chained to his task, and 
 after they had come to an understanding with 
 one another, it seemed to her as if he never 
 meant to work again ; as if he could not keep 
 his mind off their plans for the future, and as 
 if any and every subject was more interesting 
 to him than the fascinating romance upon 
 which they were then at work. 
 
 " Yes, we will go to Monte Carlo," she said,
 
 152 Wedlock 
 
 at last one day, " but we will not go to Monte 
 Carlo, or to Paris, or to church, or anywhere 
 else, until you have finished this story. Come, 
 now, I am waiting to hear what you are 
 going to do with Evangeline now." 
 
 " I think I shall chuck it up," was his reply. 
 
 " No, no ; to that I resolutely decline to be 
 a party. I am not coming into your life to 
 ruin you. You have to finish that story, be- 
 fore we can dream of being married. Come, 
 pull yourself together; think. Evangeline is 
 standing at the top of the staircase, wondering 
 what is going to happen next." 
 
 "Well, in due course the story was finished, 
 and when the last words had been taken 
 down, he asked her eagerly what she thought 
 of it. 
 
 " Give me your candid opinion," he said. 
 
 " I think," said Mary, " that it is by far the 
 greatest book that you have ever done."
 
 A New Arrangement 153 
 
 And then they were married, going quietly 
 to church one morning, attended only by a 
 great friend of Alan Stacey's, and the girl 
 through whom, indirectly, the marriage had 
 come about the girl who had first given 
 Mary the idea of taking up typewriting as a 
 serious profession. Then they went back to 
 the Sycamores and had a dainty little lunch, 
 at which they made miniature speeches, drank 
 each others' healths, and were as merry as if 
 the party had been one and forty instead of 
 but four persons. Then, at the last moment, 
 just before they rose from the table, the best 
 man thought of something. 
 
 " My dear chap," said he to the bridegroom, 
 "there is one thing about which you have 
 given me no instructions. What about the 
 announcements to the papers ? " 
 
 " Need it be announced ? " asked Mary. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Stacey," replied the best
 
 Wedlock 
 
 man, "it is absolutely essential. Bohemian 
 as Stacey is has always been he is yet, at 
 the same time, a, persona grata in society, and 
 unless your marriage is announced formally, 
 and immediately, I am afraid that it will not 
 be so pleasant for you when you come home 
 again. Here, give me a bit of paper, Stacey. 
 Tell me how you wish the announcement to 
 be worded, and I will see that it is in all to- 
 morrow's papers." 
 
 Alan Stacey got up and fetched a sheet of 
 paper and a pen and ink from the writing 
 table in the window. 
 
 " Give it to me," said Mary. " This is my 
 idea what to say." She took the sheet of pa- 
 per from his hand and wrote clearly and 
 firmly " On the tenth, at the Parish Church, 
 Fulham, by the Rev. F. D. Johnson-Brown, 
 Alan Stacey, only son of the late Colonel 
 John Stacey, Bengal Staff Corps, to Mary
 
 A New Arrangement 
 
 Conway, daughter of the late Rev. George 
 Hamilton." 
 
 She handed the paper across the table to 
 her husband, and he, knowing her well, re- 
 alized instantly that her horror and detesta- 
 tion of her first marriage had remained with 
 her to such an extent that she would not, even 
 in the formal announcement, identify herself 
 with the man who had commanded the 
 "ArtichamOj" the man who had bought her 
 with a price, the man who had given her the 
 only blow that she had ever received in the 
 whole course of her life.
 
 CHAPTEK XI 
 
 ON THE TOP OP THE TIDE 
 
 ONE of the rules of Alan Stacey's life was 
 that when he took a holiday, it should be a 
 real holiday. He was not one of those per- 
 sons who combine business with pleasure, and 
 make themselves an anno} r ance to their friends 
 by keeping the bogey of work ever present 
 with them. 
 
 They left London immediately after the wed- 
 ding, going by slow and easy stages to Italy, 
 and for three long, delicious months they rev- 
 elled in luxurious happiness. Alan Stacey 
 made traveling so easy. He was content to 
 travel for pleasure; he detested people who 
 made it a business. 
 
 " No, my dear sir," he said one day, to an 
 
 156
 
 On the Top of the Tide 157 
 
 enthusiastic American who was badgering him 
 to go and see an Etruscan tomb, " I have not 
 been, and I do not mean to go." 
 
 "But, my dear sir, it is your duty to go, 
 you ought to go, you ought to improve your 
 mind, you ought to see all that there is to be 
 seen. This is a wonderful specimen, a real old 
 Etruscan tomb, you may never have another 
 opportunity of seeing one so perfect and inter- 
 esting." 
 
 " I don't care," said Alan Stacey, doggedly ; 
 " I came here to enjoy myself with my wife. 
 My wife doesn't care about tombs, and I don't 
 care about tombs. All the Etruscan tombs in 
 the world will not be the smallest use to me. 
 They do not interest me, and they do not 
 please me, and I refuse to be badgered into 
 meditations which only irritate and annoy 
 me. Do you go and look at the tomb 
 and stay there I shall not complain, I shall
 
 158 Wedlock 
 
 never grumble at your choice of a habita- 
 tion!" 
 
 "Poor thing, he means well," said Mary, 
 when the energetic sight-seer had departed. 
 
 " I dare say he does," Alan replied, with a 
 laugh, "but I wish he'd go and mean well 
 somewhere else. Let us move on. You said 
 yesterday that you would like to go to Bella 
 Yillia ; let us go to Bella Villia and lose him." 
 
 They worked their way home from Italy at 
 last, returning by way of the Riviera, and the 
 middle of May saw Mrs. Alan Stacey settled 
 in the beautiful old house at Fulham, with 
 what was practically the world at her feet. 
 
 How happy she was ! She had been used to 
 think that no matter what fate awaited her in 
 the future, the horror, the sickening dread, the 
 terror, the repugnance, the shuddering misery 
 of the past would always be with her. But it 
 was not so. Time, the wonderful physician,
 
 On the Top of the Tide 159 
 
 taught her to forget; and by the time she 
 found herself installed in the Fulham house 
 she might, so far as her feelings went, have 
 been Mrs. Alan Stacey for ten years instead of 
 little more than as many weeks. 
 
 On the very first morning after their arrival 
 home she sent for the housekeeper who had 
 been left in charge of the Sycamores at the 
 time of their marriage. 
 
 " I sent for you," said Mrs. Stacey, gently, 
 " because it is better that we should begin with 
 a clear understanding of how we mean to go 
 on. You will quite understand that as I shall 
 continue to help Mr. Stacey with his work, 
 that I shall have no time for housekeeping. 
 You understand Mr. Stacey's ways, his likes 
 and dislikes ; he has been admirably satisfied 
 with you in the past, and I would like you to 
 know now that I desire to make no change. 
 So long as you continue to satisfy your master,
 
 160 Wedlock 
 
 you will satisfy me. You will please continue 
 exactly as you have done heretofore your ac- 
 counts, your menus, everything just as before. 
 Occasionally I may make a suggestion to you 
 if there is some dish that I should like to have, 
 or if we are having visitors I may like to make 
 some little alterations in the menu, but as a 
 general rule I do not wish to be troubled with 
 any housekeeping arrangements." 
 
 The housekeeper who was a Frenchwoman 
 and thoroughly knew the value of a good 
 place thanked her mistress and assured her of 
 her fidelity and devotion. 
 
 Then Mary rang the bell, and when John 
 came in answer to the summons she told him 
 to shut the door, that she wished to speak to 
 him. 
 
 " John," she said, " I have just been talking 
 to Madame Boniface, and telling her that I 
 wish your master's marriage to make no dif
 
 On the Top of the Tide 161 
 
 ference in the domestic arrangements. You 
 have satisfied him for many years, and I hope 
 you will continue to satisfy him for many 
 years longer. I may have to give you a few 
 orders, but on the whole I wish you to con- 
 tinue precisely as you have always done." 
 
 "You would like to have the key of the 
 cellar, ma'am ? " said John, politely. He had 
 no more intention of giving up the key of the 
 cellar than he had of giving up the use of his 
 senses, but to make the offer was the highest 
 compliment he could pay to his new mistress. 
 
 Mary laughed outright. "No, John," she 
 said, "I do not think the key of the cellar 
 would be of very much use to me. I am 
 frightened of cellars, to tell you the truth, and 
 I shouldn't know one bottle of wine from an- 
 other. No, John ; you understand Mr. Stacey's 
 ways, and you will please just do for him as 
 you have been accustomed to do. I don't
 
 162 Wedlock 
 
 think that his marriage our marriage will 
 make him more difficult to please. I hope 
 quite the contrary. But thank you, John, for 
 offering me the key of the cellar. I am sure 
 it is a very great compliment, and I appreciate 
 it highly." 
 
 And then she smilingly dismissed him, and 
 John went away feeling that after all his 
 master had done the very best possible thing 
 for himself. 
 
 Then she and Alan settled down to real 
 hard grinding work. He declared many times 
 that never in the whole course of his existence 
 had he been kept to work so ruthlessly and 
 so persistently as by his new task-mistress. 
 
 " By Jove, if I had thought that you were 
 going to goad me on like this I should have 
 thought twice before I asked you to come here 
 for good and all ! " 
 
 " Oh, no, you wouldn't," said Mary. " It is
 
 On the Top of the Tide 163 
 
 very good for you, and you know you are 
 perfectly happy, so don't pretend anything 
 else." 
 
 And it was true enough. She certainly 
 managed him and his work admirably ; for by 
 keeping him up to the mark for certain hours 
 she was able to be free herself at a fixed time 
 every day. And there was never an idle 
 minute for either of them, for, as I said awhile 
 ago, Alan Stacey had always been a persona 
 grata in society, and his many friends all 
 seemed but too anxious to receive his wife 
 with open arms. 
 
 It was a brilliant life. All that was best 
 and brightest in the great world of Art 
 flocked to Alan Stacey's house now that it 
 boasted of so charming a mistress. Mrs. Alan 
 Stacey went everywhere and was noted wher- 
 ever she went. Almost every day, in the col- 
 umns devoted to the doings of well-known
 
 164 Wedlock 
 
 people, there was mention of the brilliant 
 novelist and his wife. Her dress, her recep- 
 tions, her tastes, were continually chronicled, 
 and for his sake for Mary was singularly far- 
 seeing in everything that concerned her hus- 
 band she put herself to immense pains in 
 order that she should always create as favor- 
 able an impression as possible. She was essen- 
 tially the very wife of such a man. She never 
 attempted in any way to shine him down, 
 rather, on the contrary, did she draw him out 
 and show him at his best. She ruled his 
 household with a dignity and simplicity that 
 went to make her a favorite with all classes 
 of his friends. Her great hold over him lay 
 in the fact, that although she was possessed of 
 no artistic gift herself she was never dull, was 
 not in the least degree narrow in mind or 
 judgment, that she was possessed of that 
 scrupulous politeness which demands, as well
 
 On the Top of the Tide 165 
 
 as gives, attention. At the end of a year a 
 year of wholly unalloyed happiness Alan 
 Stacey would as soon have thought of striking 
 his wife as of omitting to pay her any of those 
 small attentions which are as oil to the wheel 
 of the matrimonial chariot. It was wonder- 
 ful that it was so ; because he had bestowed 
 everything upon her ; he had changed her life 
 from one of toil, of comparative penury, of dul- 
 ness, of loneliness, to a brilliant existence, the 
 light of which she had never known, and 
 which, had she knoAvn, she would never have 
 dared to think could possibly one day be hers. 
 And as their happiness grew and throve 
 apace, so did Alan Stacey's star of fame grow 
 more and more brilliant. There had been at 
 the time of his first great success croakers who 
 had foretold that the star of Alan Stacey's 
 brilliancy would wane in a little time. But 
 these prognostications had proved to be
 
 1 66 Wedlock 
 
 wrong. "With every book that had come out, 
 his genius was seen to be more intense and 
 more brilliant. He had the magic touch, the 
 subtle insight, the grace, the freshness, the ro- 
 mance and the poetry, which are needed to 
 make a really great and lasting success. To 
 some of us to most of us, I should have said 
 the refining fires of sorrow are necessary. 
 But now and again there shines upon the 
 world a great mind which feeds on the sun- 
 light. Alan Stacey was one of these, and 
 the more the happiness of his life increased, 
 the more brilliant did his work become. The 
 untold satisfaction of his daily life, so far from 
 cramping or stultifying him, seemed as if it 
 but fed the fires of his genius, and it was a 
 common thing in the set in which Alan Stacey 
 moved for their union to be cited as an excuse, 
 a reason, a justification, of the great and old- 
 fashioned institution of marriage.
 
 On the Top of the Tide 167 
 
 " Marriage a failure ! " cried a great painter 
 one day, when some theorist propounded the 
 idea that marriage was frequently a failure 
 because of the inequalities of intellect and at- 
 tainments in those who were indissolubly 
 bound together, " Marriage a failure for that 
 reason nonsense ! Look at Alan Stacey the 
 most brilliant chap that ever sat at a dinner 
 table, the most gifted speaker, a writer whose 
 sway stretches all over the world. Little Mrs. 
 Stacey has no attainments she does nothing ; 
 a pretty little woman, manages the house and 
 Stacey admirably; an ordinary, quiet, sensi- 
 ble, dignified little woman, who never makes 
 herself cheap, who never gives herself away, 
 and who keeps Stacey as straight as a die. 
 How does she do it ? Not because her intel- 
 lect is equal to Stacey's not a bit of it ; no, 
 but simply because she's the right woman for 
 him. She is the woman he ought to have
 
 168 Wedlock 
 
 married, and luckily for him, whom he did 
 marry. She is a wise little woman ; not intel- 
 lectual, no, that is a very different thing, but 
 wise wise in her management of Stacey. I 
 don't know," the great man went on reflec- 
 tively, " that she even has a temper, and yet, I 
 fancy she could dust Stacey's jacket for him if 
 need be." 
 
 " And you don't consider their marriage a 
 failure, Sir John ? " 
 
 " Stacey's marriage a failure ! Good God, 
 madam, what are you talking about ? Stacey's 
 twice the man* he was before he married that 
 little woman. I always regard her as the 
 pivot around which all the brilliant gems of 
 Stacey's intellect revolve. And it is neces- 
 sary, madam, for gems of intellect to have a 
 pivot that they can safely and rationally re- 
 volve round. And between ourselves and 
 not between ourselves for the matter of that
 
 On the Top of the Tide 169 
 
 I have always looked upon it as a very lucky 
 thing for Alan Stacey that he happened to 
 meet with the very woman who could make 
 all the difference in the world to him I "
 
 CHAPTEK XII 
 
 AN ITEM OF NEWS 
 
 IT was just three years after her marriage 
 with Alan Stacey, that Mary came downstairs 
 one morning into the long, low-ceiled dining- 
 room where breakfast was awaiting her. She 
 received the noisy greeting of the rough-haired 
 terrier with a kindly pat on the head, stooped 
 and ruffled the fur of the great Angora cat as 
 he lay before the cheerful fire. She turned to 
 the manservant when he came in. 
 
 " Oh, John, Mr. Stacey has a headache this 
 morning the worst he has had for months 
 he says he will take no more than a cup of tea 
 and two bits of dry toast." 
 
 "Indeed, ma'am, I'm sorry to hear that," 
 said John, in a sympathetic tone. " It's a long 
 
 170
 
 An Item of News 
 
 171 
 
 time since the master has had a real bad head- 
 ache. Thank you, ma'am," as she poured out 
 the large cup of tea. 
 
 Mary sat down in her place and poured out 
 her own tea. She was not worried or upset at 
 her husband's indisposition, because he was a 
 man who had all his life suffered occasionally 
 from violent headaches, and he declared that 
 since his marriage they had been much less 
 frequent than formerly. She helped herself to 
 some kedgeree, and opened one by one the 
 pile of letters beside her plate, smiling over 
 their contents now and then, as if she found 
 the news they contained pleasant. Then, 
 these disposed of, she took a second helping of 
 the kedgeree which was unusually good 
 and opened the newspaper, setting it up 
 against the teapot for the greater convenience 
 of being able to eat and read at the same time. 
 Like all women she read the first column to
 
 lj2 Wedlock 
 
 begin with, then turned the paper over to the 
 middle sheet. In one moment the whole at- 
 mosphere and attitude of her life was changed, 
 for there, in staring letters before her, was the 
 heading " Survivors of the Arikkama" 
 
 She caught the paper up from its position 
 against the teapot, and thrust it down be- 
 tween the table and her knee, going on me- 
 chanically eating her breakfast, as if by so 
 doing she could keep the suspicious announce- 
 ment at arms' length. Then she found that 
 although she had gone on eating she would 
 not swallow the food that was in her mouth, 
 and as she came to a realization of the fact, 
 she choked the mouthful down and pushed her 
 plate away. 
 
 "Survivors of the Arikhama!" Good 
 Heavens ! "What did these four words imply ? 
 " Survivors of the Arikhama ! " " Oh, my 
 God, not that, not that!" she moaned out,
 
 An Item of News 173 
 
 putting her hands up to her head and staring 
 hard at the opposite wall. "Not that, not 
 that ! " 
 
 " Survivors of the AriTchama ! " The trend 
 of thoughts which the words called up was 
 hideous hideous hideous. Perhaps, after 
 all, he was alive ! She passed her hands over 
 her face to clear her eyes from the mist 
 that danced before them. Her blood ran cold ; 
 her flesh seemed to turn chill; her heart to 
 have stopped its motion ; only her terrible 
 thoughts went whirling, whirling, whirling on 
 to what ? To the fact that Edward Conway 
 might be one of the survivors of the Arik- 
 hama! 
 
 She looked down at the paper crushed upon 
 her knee. " I daren't read it ; I daren't read 
 it ; I will put it in the fire as it is. It will be 
 better not to know ! Oh, my God, what shall 
 I do ? " The survivors of the AriTchama !
 
 174 Wedlock 
 
 Where had they been ? Years had gone by ! 
 
 "Oh, this is folly folly! Pull yourself 
 together, Mary Stacey, pull yourself together ; 
 nerve yourself, woman ; don't be a coward ; 
 face the worst, know the worst and get it 
 over. Anything is better than suspicions, and 
 the paper will tell you ! " 
 
 So she took up the paper with nerveless, 
 shaking fingers, smoothed it out and bent her 
 eyes upon it. They refused their office. 
 Merciful nature spread a curtain between her 
 palpitating heart, her dazed brain, and the 
 cruel news which the printed columns brought. 
 She could see nothing. 
 
 She shook herself together. " This is fool- 
 ish," her heart said ; " you are unnerved, Mary 
 Stacey; rub your eyes hard and don't be a 
 coward. Read the notice." 
 
 Slowly the printed words appeared through 
 the mist the merciful mist "/Survivors of
 
 An Item of News 
 
 the Arikhama" And then the paragraph 
 went on to tell this wondrous tale of the sea. 
 How a sailing brig, under stress of weather, 
 had found herself driven upon a rocky islet in 
 the far Pacific. It was not an unknown 
 island but an uninhabited one, being too far 
 out of the ordinary track of vessels, and too 
 small and poor in quality of land, to make it 
 worth while for any one to settle there. The 
 sailing vessel, finding herself driven very near, 
 put in to renew her stores of water, and, to 
 the astonishment of the captain and crew, 
 discovered three men and a dog in possession 
 of the island. These were the captain and 
 two of the crew of the ill-fated steamship 
 Arikhama, who, after drifting about in an 
 open boat for many weeks, and suffering un- 
 heard-of privations, had found themselves 
 tossed upon this far-off strand, which had been 
 to them, for nearly six years, a living grave.
 
 176 Wedlock 
 
 Captain Conway and the two seamen were 
 the only three out of nine who had survived 
 the hardships and privations of that long and 
 terrible voyage and the cruel life of isolation 
 which followed. Then came a description of 
 how the rescued men had lived. Penguins' 
 eggs, occasional fish, and roots of various 
 kinds, had formed their chief sustenance. 
 The whole account ended with details of how 
 the three men had wept like madmen on meet- 
 ing their rescuers, and the concluding sentence 
 said " When we tell our readers that Captain 
 Con way had only been married a few months 
 when he set out on the Arikhama's last ill- 
 fated voyage, it will easily be understood that 
 his anxiety to have news of his wife was ovei^ 
 powering. The captain and crew of the 
 Lively Jeanie, however, were not able to 
 satisfy him on this point, but they sailed the 
 following day for Melbourne, and Captain
 
 An Item of News 177 
 
 Conway will set sail for home immediately on 
 arrival at that port." 
 
 So she knew the worst, and worse than the 
 worst could not be. So all her new-found 
 happiness had fallen about her ears like a 
 house of cards. All was at an end ! 
 
 She sat there still holding the paper, staring 
 with wild eyes round the luxurious room. So 
 her happiness had all come to an end. Her 
 radiant life was over. She who had been for 
 three blessed years Alan Stacey's honored and 
 devoted wife, must be outcast outcast ! She 
 repeated the word over and over again to her- 
 self, as if to try by repetition to din its mean- 
 ing into her bewildered brain. Could it be 
 true ? Yes. That heading still stared at her 
 "Survivors of the Arikhama" She had 
 read the account. There was Edward Con- 
 way's name. It was all true too true. And 
 upstairs, ill and prostrate, lay the man who
 
 i 7 8 Wedlock 
 
 had come to be all the world to her ; the man 
 who had taken her, poor and alone as she was, 
 and made her the mistress of his heart and of 
 his home. And he was ignorant ! She would 
 have to tell him to tell him that she was not 
 his wife to tell him that she was the wife, 
 and not the widow, of the man who had 
 bought her with a price, who had outraged 
 her, who had struck her ! 
 
 And he had told that story of how he had 
 been only a few months married to a young 
 wife ! She wondered bitterly whether he had 
 told them that he had so far forgotten his mar- 
 riage vows that he had struck the young wife 
 in those early days of their marriage ? Three 
 years three years three wholly blessed years 
 without one sad thought, without one harsh 
 word, without one regret. Three years of 
 pure and unalloyed happiness. "Well, she would 
 always have that to look back to. Perhaps
 
 An Item of News 179 
 
 she ought not to grumble, or to be surprised 
 that fate had been minded to bring her happi- 
 ness to an end. It was like the registration of 
 sunshine in London. Some people got a little 
 happiness filtered out in driblets over a long 
 life of great dulness; she had had three 
 blessed years of glory, and now the time would 
 be all grey, like a London fog. She had regis- 
 tered three years of sunshine, and like poor 
 London, she must put in the average of mist 
 and fog. 
 
 She sat for some little time longer, indeed, 
 until John came to clear the table. Then, 
 from some woman's instinct of hiding the 
 tragedy through which she was passing, she 
 rose and carried the paper to the fire, and 
 stood there reading an account of the fancy 
 dress ball given by the Lady Mayoress of Lon- 
 don, aye, and reading it attentively. They 
 had been present thereat. Her dress was de-
 
 l8o Wedlock 
 
 scribed her dress and Alan's almost side by 
 side with the words which told of the rescue 
 of the survivors of the Arikhama. 
 
 Then John betook himself away, and she 
 was once more left alone. She formed no 
 plans, her dazed brain refused to take in any- 
 thing more than the stern and bare facts. Ed- 
 ward Con way was alive on his way home 
 eager and anxious to find her. And she was 
 here, in the old Fulham house, masquerading 
 to the world as Alan Stacey's honored wife ! 
 
 And Alan would have to be told ! He would 
 have to see the papers ; he would have to de- 
 cide where she was to go, what she was to do, 
 how she could best hide herself from the mon- 
 ster who had legal right over her. 
 
 She was still sitting there, when eleven 
 strokes of the clock warned her that the morn- 
 ing was passing when they should have 
 warned her, for Mary did not move from her
 
 An Item of News 181 
 
 place beside the fire. Then a smart housemaid 
 came in with a message. 
 
 " Please, ma'am, master is much better, and 
 if you have quite done with the paper, he 
 would be glad if you would send it upstairs to 
 him."
 
 CHAPTEK XIII 
 
 CONCEALING LAWFUL NEWS. 
 
 MAEY'3 first instinct was to carry the paper 
 upstairs to Alan Stacey herself, to break the 
 news to him there and then. But hard upon 
 the heels of this thought canie another. That 
 he was but just over a very violent headache, 
 and it would be cruel to tell him that moment. 
 She therefore whisked out the middle page, 
 and gave the rest of the paper to the maid. 
 
 " Tell Mr. Stacey that I will come up in a 
 few minutes," she said. 
 
 When the servant had left the room her first 
 thought was how she could best conceal that 
 part of the paper from Alan. Then she ran to 
 the door. 
 
 " Alice, Alice come back ! " she called. 
 
 182
 
 Concealing Lawful News 183 
 
 " Give me the paper. I will go up to Mr. Sta- 
 cey myself." 
 
 But she did not go up at once. She turned 
 back into the dining-room, and deliberately 
 tore the sheet containing the telegram across, 
 so that the corner where the account of the 
 rescue of the survivors of the Arikhatna had 
 been was gone. This she threw into the fire. 
 Then she went up the wide shallow stairs and 
 turned in at her bedroom door. 
 
 "My dear boy," she said, in a tone as 
 much like her natural voice as supreme effort 
 could make it, "I really don't think that 
 you ought to be reading the newspaper 
 particularly lying down in bed let me read 
 to you." 
 
 She sat down by the fire with her back to 
 the light. Alan Stacey lay back among his 
 pillows idly enough. 
 
 " I don't care about reading, so long as you'll
 
 184 Wedlock 
 
 sit there and talk to me," he said, lazily. " Is 
 there anything in the paper ? " 
 
 " ISTo-o ; an account of the ball last night, 
 with our noble names in the paragraph. All 
 the rest is pretty much as usual." 
 
 She glanced down the day by day column ; 
 gave him a list of all the items of news that 
 might in any way serve to interest him ; and 
 after that they talked for a little while ; and 
 then Alan Stacey said that he might as well 
 get up as lie idling there, and Mary went 
 downstairs again, carrying the paper in her 
 hand carrying also her burden with her ; 
 carrying with her the knowledge and the con- 
 viction that he would have to be told ; that 
 she must be the one to break the news to him ; 
 that there must be no shirking it, no getting 
 out of it ; that it was a task which lay right 
 in front of her, a task which she must accom- 
 plish and the sooner the better.
 
 Concealing Lawful News 185 
 
 Then she remembered that if she told him 
 Alan would naturally ask to see the paper 
 containing the news. But she had burned it ! 
 She felt so strangely are we moved by trifles 
 in times of great difficulty that she could not 
 endure to let him know that her first thought* 
 had been to hide the truth from him. Then 
 how was she to account to him for having de- 
 stroyed that part of the paper ? Should she 
 send out and get another copy ? She did not 
 like to do that ; nor did she like to go herself 
 it would look so strange. 
 
 And then the thought came to her Why 
 tell him at all ? Why say anything about it ? 
 Why break up and destroy their intense hap- 
 piness ? Nothing could be wider apart than 
 the lives led by Edward Conway and Alan 
 Stacey's wife. Why admit that she had seen 
 the news that part of the crew of the Ari- 
 khama had been rescued? Just now when
 
 186 Wedlock 
 
 Alan was showing signs of over-work and 
 about to take a holiday it would be cruel to 
 deal him such a blow. A few weeks longer in 
 her sunshine would make no difference to any- 
 body but herself. Alan would never know- 
 Edward Con way need never know that she 
 had been aware all along that three men be- 
 longing to the Arikhama had been rescued off 
 an uninhabited island in the Pacific Ocean. 
 Why should she say anything ? Why should 
 she not at least let Alan finish his book the 
 greatest book he had ever done take his 
 holiday ; and if the blow fell then why, he 
 would be the better prepared to meet it. It 
 would be bad enough if Edward Conway dis- 
 covered her, and the secret could not be kept 
 any longer. 
 
 Having thus made up her mind to keep the 
 news which had reached her to herself, she 
 acted immediately. She destroyed the torn
 
 Concealing Lawful News 187 
 
 sheet of the paper, and thrust the part which 
 remained carelessly into the rack with the 
 other journals, trusting to her own wit to keep 
 Alan from wishing to look at it during the 
 day. It was an off day with the young lady 
 who typed to her dictation, so that she was 
 free of any tie of work. She set herself to do 
 some needle-work, in order that she might 
 look occupied when Alan made his appearance, 
 and she sat near the window stitching indus- 
 triously, while her mind went over and over 
 again such shreds of self-justification as 
 she could find to salve her conscience. She 
 told herself that it was not as if she had gone 
 into an irregular union with her eyes open. 
 She had truely and honestly believed herself 
 to be Edward Con way's widow ; and her mar- 
 riage with Alan was her real marriage. What 
 was it they said ? "I require and charge you 
 both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of
 
 188 Wedlock 
 
 Judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall 
 be disclosed if either of you know of any im- 
 pediment why ye may not lawfully be joined 
 together in matrimony, ye do now confess it." 
 Then came these impressive words " Those 
 whom God hath joined together let no man 
 put asunder." Surely, surely God had joined 
 them ; surely, surely, it had been by the per- 
 mission of God that such a blaze of pure and 
 innocent joy and glory had come into her life ; 
 surely she would be doing right to continue 
 such a union. The most fanatical and bigotted 
 lover of conventionalism could never wish 
 that she should go back to live the life of 
 shame and degradation which had been hers 
 during those few months after her first mar- 
 riage after that barbarous sale of herself into 
 which she had been driven by circumstances 
 absolutely beyond her control. 
 
 Alan Stacey came down presently, and when
 
 Concealing Lawful News 189 
 
 Mary noticed how haggard and ill he was 
 looking, she thanked heaven that she had kept 
 the news of Edward Con way's survival to her- 
 self. She exerted herself in every possible 
 way to please him ; coaxing him to eat when 
 lunch time came, and being seemingly in the 
 gayest and brightest of spirits. But nothing 
 served to rouse him from the dull depression 
 which seemed to have taken possession of him. 
 
 "I believe you ought to have stayed in 
 bed," she said at last, as he sat moping and 
 shivering over the fire. 
 
 " No ; I'm better up," he answered. 
 
 " The book is weighing on your mind, dear- 
 est." 
 
 "Horribly," he replied "horribly. I feel 
 as if I should never finish it." 
 
 " Oh, don't say that. You've been burning 
 the candle at both ends. You cannot do this 
 work and go to fancy dress balls at the same
 
 190 Wedlock 
 
 time. Why not let us slip away and finish it 
 quietly somewhere ? Supposing that we pack 
 up and go to some quiet little place where we 
 can work in peace and comfort; and, after 
 that, we will go off on our long holiday ? " 
 
 He caught at the suggestion eagerly. 
 
 "That's a good idea, Mary," he replied; 
 "that's a very good idea. You'll take little 
 Miss Winnington down with you ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; because there's a good lot to do 
 yet. Oh, yes, we would have her down there 
 with us. But the change, the fresh air, the 
 sea, the restf ulness, would all be very good for 
 you, and would help you to finish it with half 
 the effort it would be if we stayed at home. 
 Shall we go off at once ? " 
 
 "As soon as ever you like," he replied. 
 " "Where shall we go ? Let us try some part of 
 Cornwall." 
 
 " Well, dear, there's that little place that the
 
 Concealing Lawful News 191 
 
 Alec Dugdales went to. They said the inn 
 was so comfortable, and the cooking so good, 
 and the little place so primitive and yet so 
 sweet ; and boating, and fishing, and cycling, 
 and all that sort of thing you could do in per- 
 fection. Don't you think that would do for 
 us ? You know we cannot have a place too 
 quiet until we are through the book." 
 
 " I think it would do splendidly. Couldn't 
 we telegraph to-day and go down to-morrow ? 
 Have we any engagements ? " 
 
 "We have no dinners; nothing that we 
 couldn't easily break." 
 
 " Have we the address of the inn ? " 
 " Oh, yes ; it is called * The Powys Arms.' " 
 She rang the bell, and then went to the 
 writing-table to get the book of telegraph 
 forms. 
 
 " I must send a wire to Miss "Winnington. 
 Of course, if she is not quite able to come to-
 
 192 Wedlock 
 
 morrow she might come down the day after 
 which, perhaps, would be rather better. Oh, 
 John, we are going down to Cornwall to-mor- 
 row for a week or two ; I want you to send 
 some telegrams off at once, and to arrange all 
 Mr. Stacey's things." 
 
 "Very good, ma'am. You will take the 
 machines down ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; and what about your fishing rod, 
 Alan ? There is very good fishing down there 
 so the Dugdales said." 
 
 " Then I had better take my tackle." 
 
 " Will this do, Alan ? * Have you rooms va- 
 cant, two bedrooms, two sitting-rooms. "Wanted 
 for to-morrow. Reply paid.' " 
 
 " That will do," said he. 
 
 She scribbled also a message to Miss Win- 
 nington, and when John had departed and she 
 was looking down the engagement book to see 
 whether any notes of excuse would be neces-
 
 Concealing Lawful News 193 
 
 saiy, Alan Stacey got up and began walking 
 restlessly about the room. At last he stopped 
 in front of her table. 
 
 " What are you doing now ? " he asked. 
 
 " I was just looking whether I should have 
 to write to any one excuses, you know." 
 
 He stood with his hands thrust deep down 
 into his trouser pockets, eyeing her approv- 
 ingly. 
 
 "You're a wonderful little woman, Mary," 
 he said in a very tender tone. 
 
 She smiled up at him and put out her hand 
 to touch his. 
 
 " I'm glad you think so," she said, in rather 
 a quavering voice. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, my dear, I always think so," 
 he said, passionately. "It was the luckiest 
 day of my whole life, when I met you." 
 
 " And what," said she, " do you think that 
 it must have been for me ? "
 
 1Q4 Wedlock 
 
 She was at that moment on the very point 
 of breaking down and telling him everything. 
 Then the sound of the sob in her own voice 
 frightened her. No, she could not, must not, 
 dared not, tell him just now ; now, when he 
 had the weight of a great book upon his mind, 
 the anxiety of a large contract, before him ; 
 when he was in a measure nerve-broke, and 
 anxious and depressed. No ; she must keep 
 the secret, at least for a time. It would be 
 selfish to do otherwise. She owed it, even if 
 it was a sin, as a small return for all that Alan 
 Stacey had poured out at her feet ; she owed 
 it to him. In this instance silence was her 
 duty.
 
 CHAPTER XIT 
 
 FEOM THE COENEB WINDOW 
 
 As the train steamed out of Paddington 
 Station on the following day, Mary gave a 
 great sigh of relief; and Alan Stacey, whose 
 spirits had gone up as high as the day before 
 they had been low for he was like all people 
 of buoyant disposition subject to great alter- 
 nations of temperament moved his seat over 
 to the one beside her, and put his arm round 
 her waist. 
 
 " Little woman," he said, " it is awfully jolly 
 to be going out of London again, isn't it, even 
 although we are not going for a holiday ? By 
 Jove, that was a good idea of yours. "What a 
 wise little head you've got! I should have 
 gone on fagging my heart out in that used up 
 
 195
 
 196 Wedlock 
 
 atmosphere, and you came with your wonder- 
 ful woman's wit, and solved the question in an 
 instant. You women are wonderful crea- 
 tures ! " 
 
 She did not say very much ; she nestled up 
 close against him with curiously mingled feel- 
 ings. On the one hand she felt that she was 
 leaving her troubles behind her ; on the other 
 that she was only putting off the evil day for 
 a little time. She felt that she was safe, and 
 yet that she was insecure. She had gained 
 breathing time, a resting-place ; but that one 
 day she would have to tell Alan Stacey the 
 truth was as inevitable as that one day she 
 would have to die. 
 
 " By the bye, did you remember to tell John 
 to send the papers after us ? " 
 
 " No, I did not tell him," said Mary. 
 
 She flushed up a vivid, guilty scarlet, for, 
 truth to say, she had purposely refrained
 
 From the Corner Window 197 
 
 from instructing the intelligent John on this 
 point. 
 
 " Oh ! Well, of course we can easily write 
 and tell him to send them," said Alan. " All 
 the same, I don't know whether newspapers 
 are not rather a bore than otherwise." 
 
 "You see," said she, apologetically, "we 
 generally go to hotels where there are papers." 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, yes, it is all right ; I dare say 
 we shall be much better without them if we 
 find that the Powys Arms is not so luxurious 
 as to have a London paper. Let us try it at 
 all events." 
 
 So they started on their pilgrimage without 
 so much as a daily paper to tell them what 
 was going on in the world. 
 
 It seemed strange to Mary herself that she 
 was not more eager to know further news of 
 the survivors of the Arikhama, but she was 
 truly happier not to know. From that mo-
 
 198 Wedlock 
 
 ment she flung herself into the present with 
 an energy which was intensely pathetic, and 
 Alan Stacey was more hopelessly in love with 
 her than ever. 
 
 She had arranged with Miss "VVinnington to 
 be in readiness to come if she should send for 
 her so that they made acquaintance with the 
 little Cornish fishing village without the re- 
 straint of a third person. They were like two 
 happy children. The weather was lovely, the 
 air soft and sweet ; and they tramped over the 
 golden sands and prowled among the rocks, as 
 if never a care existed in the world or ever 
 could do. 
 
 " You like this place, sweetheart ? " he said 
 to her on the evening of their first day. 
 
 " I love it," she answered. " I should like 
 to stay here always. Alan, I don't believe 
 that a place like the Sycamores is good for 
 you. It is too flat, too much shut in ; there is
 
 From the Corner Window 
 
 199 
 
 not air enough for a brain worker. Let us 
 give up London, and settle ourselves in some 
 such place as this, where we can live more of 
 the ideal life, and make up the waste as fast as 
 we create it. I believe it would be good for 
 both of us. There is that sweet old place we 
 passed among the trees to-day fancy having 
 that for one's own. Fancy asking one's Lon- 
 don friends to come down and spend a week 
 in such a place as this ! "What joy it would 
 give ! " 
 
 "Yes; but should we have any London 
 friends to ask if we settled ourselves here 
 altogether ? " 
 
 " Why not ? You have friends all over the 
 world ; you are not dependent upon London. 
 Of course you would have your friends just 
 the same." 
 
 "And you would really like to leave Ful- 
 ham, to have no resting-place in town ? "
 
 2oo Wedlock 
 
 " I am afraid I would, Alan. You see, I am 
 not like you ; you were born to it ; you are 
 well used to the rush, and turmoil of life. 1 
 feel, sometimes, as if I could not get air, as 
 if I were choking." 
 
 "Everybody feels it in London, my dear; 
 and when you've got air and are not choking, 
 you feel bored to death ; you feel you would 
 give anything to be back again in the place 
 where things hum, to be in the thick of the 
 fray. It is vegetation to spend all your life 
 in a quiet place, even a Paradise like this. 
 But I tell you what we might do. I've had 
 my doubts about the Sycamores for some 
 little time. We might move into a flat 
 comparatively small and take a cottage 
 down here solely for work. That would pay 
 better than setting up our tent in any such 
 place as this altogether." 
 
 " A cottage one could turn round in, Alan."
 
 From the Corner Window 201 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I take it house rent is not very 
 expensive here. At all events we will look 
 round at all the cottages and see what kind of 
 places are going. And we must see first 
 whether I can work in the dead stillness of a 
 country life. Somebody or other called it 
 ' dead stillness,' didn't they ? I once went 
 down into the country to do a very special bit 
 of work that I wanted in a hurry. I went 
 down with Goggle-Eyes to a farm in Surrey. 
 I came back at the end of a week dead beat, 
 and, indeed, I -never passed a week in such a 
 continual din in my life ! Did you know be- 
 fore that horses never go to sleep ? " 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! " 
 
 "It is true," said he, solemnly. "Horses 
 never go to sleep ; or, if they do, they walk 
 in their sleep. My bedroom was at right 
 angles with the stables where the farm horses 
 lived. They kicked the walls, and the man-
 
 202 Wedlock 
 
 gers, and the floor all night long. I used to 
 go in and look at them foddered down knee- 
 deep in straw; all still, silent, quiet except 
 for the pulling of the chains through the iron 
 rings of the mangers. But as soon as I got 
 into bed they all began, and they were never 
 still for one minute until cock-crow ! never ! 
 At half-past three or earlier the poultry 
 yard began. And then between the coming 
 of the laborers, and the flirting of the young 
 women I don't know what they did, because 
 the men did the milking and the stentorian 
 voice of the farmer bellowing his orders, I 
 never got any rest at all. Goggle-Eyes slept 
 through it. He said it was heavenly, it was 
 so tranquil! I believe Goggle-Eyes would 
 sleep through the Last Judgment." 
 
 However, the " Powys Arms " proved to be 
 an ideal working-place for Alan Stacey. He 
 flourished and throve, and the work grew
 
 From the Corner Window 203 
 
 apace, and Mary was more than ever set upon 
 establishing a little seaside home of their own, 
 a little retreat to which they could at any mo- 
 ment retire from the world. 
 
 At the end of three weeks the book was 
 finished, and little Miss Winnington went 
 back to London. Alan Stacey and Mary, 
 however, stayed on at the curious, old-fash- 
 ioned inn, spending their days in boating 
 and fishing, and trying to make up their minds 
 in what part of the world they should spend 
 their holiday. If he had a preference it was 
 for a yacht ; but Mary did not fall very en- 
 thusiastically into the scheme, and he had al- 
 ways a lingering fear that she might have a 
 special reason for not wishing to be on the 
 sea. Therefore he forbore to press her to 
 consent to this arrangement ; for Alan Stacey 
 would have done anything rather than in any 
 way have reminded Mary of the great tragedy
 
 204 Wedlock 
 
 which had freed her from her first husband. 
 They talked of the Italian lakes, of the regu- 
 larly beaten Riviera track, and lastly of Biar- 
 ritz, with excursions over the Spanish frontier. 
 Upon that they practically decided, yet they 
 lingered in the little fishing village, from sheer 
 inability to tear themselves away. 
 
 And during all this time they had never 
 seen a London newspaper. Several times 
 Alan Stacey had said in joke that they might 
 as well be dead and buried for all the news 
 they had of the world; and almost every day 
 he declared that he must write to John and 
 tell him to send on the papers. But as Mary 
 did not write, it somehow remained undone ; 
 and they continued in their ignorance of pass- 
 ing events. 
 
 So nearly a month slipped by. 
 
 " We really ought to make a move, sweet- 
 heart," said Alan one afternoon, when they
 
 From the Corner Window 205 
 
 were sitting on a rock, watching the sun sink 
 slowly down into the water. 
 
 " Yes," said Mary ; " but it has been 
 charming here. I don't," with a great 
 sigh " I don't think that the time has been 
 wasted." 
 
 " My dear child, no time could be wasted to 
 me that has been spent with you. What a 
 thing to say ! Of course it has not been 
 wasted. This place has served our turn well ; 
 but we both want change you as well as I. 
 Do you know, two or three times lately I 
 have thought you looking quite careworn ; 
 and you have nothing," looking at her anx- 
 iously and searchingly, "you have nothing to 
 be careworn about ? " 
 
 " Nothing," said Mary. She could feel the 
 sob in her throat ; she wondered that he did 
 not hear it. " I think you are right," she said 
 after a moment, " and that it is time that we
 
 206 Wedlock 
 
 were moving on. You have quite decided on 
 Biarritz, Alan ? " 
 
 "As well as any other place. We have 
 never been there ; they say it is bright, and 
 gay, and exhilarating. If we don't like it, we 
 can move on somewhere else." 
 
 " Then we will go home to-morrow ? " 
 
 " I think we may as well," he replied. 
 
 So she set about packing up her few belong- 
 ings. She had taken only the most plain and 
 simple serge gowns with her. A single trunk 
 held everything that she had. She packed a 
 good deal that evening, and in the morning 
 she got up early and finished it off before 
 breakfast time. 
 
 " I. will just run down the village," said 
 Alan, " and settle up with Jan Trevethick, and 
 by that time you will be ready for breakfast." 
 
 " Yes, I shall be ready," said Mary, smiling 
 at him.
 
 From the Corner Window 207 
 
 She watched him go down the village street, 
 with eyes full of pride and love. What a man 
 he was ! With what a swing he walked, with 
 what careless, easy grace of carriage ; a man 
 every inch of him. She was sorry to leave 
 the dear little Cornish village, and yet, she 
 felt that the pleasant Basque town would be 
 at once a change and a relief from the mo- 
 notony of the life that they were then lead- 
 ing. She dreaded that one day Alan would 
 wake up to dulness, for that, she well knew, 
 would be the beginning of the end of their 
 love. Yes ; for both their sakes it was better 
 that they should go to Biarritz and be gay. 
 She would be quite safe there. Edward 
 Conway, if he was really seeking for her, 
 would never look for her in such a place as 
 that. If he was on her track he would find 
 her as well at St. Agnes as he would find her 
 at Biarritz.
 
 208 Wedlock 
 
 There ; that was the last ! She shut down 
 the lid of her dress-basket with an air of 
 satisfaction. Alan's portmanteau she had 
 finished half an hour before. She would put 
 her hat and gloves there on the dressing- 
 table, so that she would only just have to run 
 upstairs and fetch them after breakfast. She 
 glanced at her watch. Oh, he had had plenty 
 of time to get back from seeing the old boat- 
 man, and she turned to the window to look 
 whether he were not coming. She only gave 
 one glance. The window was at the end of 
 the room, and commanded a full view of the 
 irregular cobble-paved street. And as Mary's 
 eyes were turned to look along it, she saw 
 Alan Stacey and Edward Conway walking up 
 the road together.
 
 CHAPTER XT 
 
 TO THE BITTER END 
 
 MAKY only gave one horrified glance along 
 the village street, ere she cowered back 
 behind the shelter of the white dimity cur- 
 tains. 
 
 Yes; it was he! The man who in law 
 owned her; the man who had bought her 
 with a price ; the man who had treated her as 
 a bond-slave. He was not very much changed. 
 His hair and beard were white, but his face 
 was just as weather-beaten as of yore, and his 
 gait had the same pronounced sailor's roll. 
 He was apparently talking excitedly, and was 
 gesticulating wildly with his hands. Alan 
 was listening, as he lounged along with his 
 hands in the pockets of his jacket and his pipe 
 between his teeth. 
 
 209
 
 2io Wedlock 
 
 The figures of the two men passed under 
 the window and out of her sight, but Mary 
 stood there like a woman who was petrified. 
 Stood their, holding for support to the frail 
 curtain, waiting for the blow to fall. She 
 waited, as Marie Antionette may have waited 
 under the guillotine. In five minutes it will be 
 all over ; in four ; in three ; in two ; in one. It 
 was close at hand . . . about to fall. Yes ! 
 She tore herself away from the support of the 
 curtain as she heard a footstep on the stair. 
 Then Alan entered the room. 
 
 " Well, sweetheart, are you not nearly ready 
 for breakfast ? " he asked. 
 
 The sudden revulsion of feeling, the over- 
 powering sense of relief, almost broke her 
 down. She caught hold of the dressing-table to 
 steady herself, but for a second or two could not 
 speak. At last she choked down the great 
 knot in her throat, and asked him a question.
 
 To the Bitter End 211 
 
 "Who was that you came up the street 
 with?" 
 
 He never looked at her as he answered. He 
 was doing something to his pipe. 
 
 " Oh, a chap who asked the way ; that was 
 all." 
 
 " The way to where ? " 
 
 " I directed him to Eoathlyn. He is half 
 way there by this time. Come, let us go 
 down and get our breakfast." 
 
 She felt that the risk was immense. She 
 Vvondered what Edward Conway was doing in 
 that part of Cornwall ? She had never heard 
 him speak of having been in Cornwall; she 
 had never heard of his having any connection 
 with any one in Cornwall or with Cornish 
 people. And then she reminded herself, half 
 bitterly, that she had known very little of him 
 at all. But what was he doing here in St. 
 Agnes ? It was no use shirking the situation ;
 
 2 1 2 Wedlock 
 
 she must dare and risk all at this juncture. 
 Nothing would be gained by cowardice. And, 
 after all, he could never force her to go back 
 to him. He could only, at the very worst, ex- 
 pose her ; and in her case exposure would 
 mean the world's pity, never its scorn. 
 
 She drew her breath sharp between her 
 teeth, took her handkerchief off the dressing- 
 table, and turned and went out of the room 
 and down the stairs, Alan Stacey following. 
 And in the best parlor their breakfast was 
 laid, and in two minutes the delicate fried fish 
 and golden fresh eggs were brought in. 
 
 " Fish or eggs and bacon, sweetheart ? " 
 said Stacey, as the apple-cheeked maid lifted 
 the covers of the two dishes. 
 
 "Eggs and bacon, thank you, Alan," she 
 replied. 
 
 She had never in her life felt less like eat- 
 ing, but it would not do to arouse suspicion by
 
 To the Bitter End 213 
 
 refusing to try to do so. She poured out 
 the coffee, and listened with a smile, that was 
 not very real, while Alan told her of his fare- 
 well to the old boatman. 
 
 At last he stretched out his hand to her 
 across the table. 
 
 " Sweetheart," he said, " you are quite sad 
 at going away. Would you rather stop 
 here ? " 
 
 She answered him all in a hurry. " Oh, no, 
 Alan, no, no; I am all packed and ready. 
 Don't suggest such a thing. What should 
 make you give me such a Lot's Wife character 
 as that? I much prefer to be going away. 
 We have been here quite long enough. It 
 is a dear little place, and you know I always 
 want to stay in a new place forever, it is one 
 of my characteristics ; but I think I get tired 
 of them I think I use them up. I don't be- 
 lieve I shall want to come to St. Agnes again."
 
 214 Wedlock 
 
 " Not even to have the cottage ? " 
 
 " No," trying hard to repress a shudder. 
 "No, not even to have the cottage, Alan. 
 After all, I think you are right ; there is no 
 place like London. We will stay at home a 
 few days before we go on? What do you 
 think?" 
 
 " Just as you please. I don't see why we 
 shouldn't." 
 
 "Nor I," said she. For the thought had 
 come to her, that if Edward Conway was 
 hunting her down, there is no place in the 
 world where you can keep yourself hidden so 
 easily as in London. Nor would it be easy to 
 find her, for she had not a single friend or ac- 
 quaintance who had known her at the time of 
 Captain Conway's supposed death. At the 
 time of her second marriage she would have 
 written to Mr. Lawson to whom she had 
 only a few weeks before repaid the last in-
 
 To the Bitter End 215 
 
 stalment of the hundred pounds at what 
 pinching effort she alone knew. But he had 
 just died, and with the other officials of the 
 Eed Kiver Line she had no acquaintance. 
 So long as she did not walk abroad there was 
 but very little chance of her stumbling against 
 her pursuer. Here, on the contrary, it was 
 almost impossible to keep out of the way of 
 any one whom you did not want to see. Pres- 
 ently she would have to drive three miles to 
 the station, not, mercifully along the road to 
 Roathlyn, but in the opposite direction. Still, 
 it was possible that he might have changed 
 his mind ; and in any case she would not feel 
 absolutely secure until she was out of the 
 neighborhood, until she was out of this deso- 
 lation of woods and fields and into the safe 
 shelter of the great city. 
 
 For one wild moment she wished with all her 
 heart that she had told Alan when the news
 
 216 Wedlock 
 
 of Edward Conway's rescue first reached her. 
 But now that she had come face to face with 
 the terrible and awful tragedy which would 
 end God alone knew how she did not dare 
 to speak. As she sat there, trying to force 
 the egg and the delicate strips of bacon bit by 
 bit down her throat, she recalled the very first 
 time that she had ever seen him. How he 
 had refused with absolute scorn to enquire 
 into her character, how he had told her that 
 honesty was the dominant note of her life 
 that she had many times given herself away 
 by being too honest, by not being able to tell, 
 at the right moment, the harmless, necessary 
 lie. 
 
 And if I tell the truth, I must needs confess 
 that she was, at this juncture, afraid to tell 
 him afraid to own that she had shared his 
 life and love while the barrier of a great secret 
 lay between them. She told herself that it
 
 To the Bitter End 217 
 
 would have been so easy to carry the news 
 straight to him then, that day when her hor- 
 rified eyes had first fallen upon that announce- 
 ment in the papers which was headed : " Sur- 
 vivors of the AriMama" It was not easy 
 then ; now it was almost impossible. She felt 
 that she could not face the look of surprise in 
 his eyes ; she felt that if everything came out, 
 and he should ask her to stay with him, that 
 he could no longer ask it as a favor. So more 
 and more she realized the need of keeping it 
 all a dead secret, of hiding from Edward Con- 
 way as long as she could, and of trusting to 
 blind chance and Providence to free her 
 to free her, this time, beyond all shadow of 
 doubt. 
 
 There were still some trivial arrangements 
 for Alan to make when they had finished 
 breakfast. Gratuities to be given, one or two 
 little bills to be paid, and the landlord's
 
 2l8 Wedlock 
 
 account to be settled in full. She could hear 
 him. in the little room across the passage, ex- 
 plaining to mine host that he had no doubt as 
 to the honesty of the bill ; it was no use his 
 going over the items ; that he had not the 
 least idea how many whiskies and sodas he 
 had had, and that if he had no objection he 
 would prefer to settle the account without any 
 further arguments. Then she heard the land- 
 lord protest that they wanted them to come 
 back again, and therefore he was particularly 
 anxious that Mr. Stacey should go thoroughly 
 into the bill, so that if there was anything to 
 which he objected that he might meet him at 
 once. 
 
 "My friend," said Alan, "you will never 
 make your fortune. Here you have enter- 
 tained us to the best of your ability; you 
 have satisfied both my wife and myself, and 
 we are extremely obliged to you for all the
 
 To the Bitter End 
 
 219 
 
 trouble and pains that you have been at to 
 give us a good time. I am quite satisfied that 
 the bill is all right, and that there is not a 
 single item in it to which any reasonable man 
 could raise any objection." 
 
 Then she heard the chink of money, and, 
 from the silence that followed, guessed that 
 the landlord was employed in the serious busi- 
 ness of receipting the bill. She wondered how 
 many more hotel bills would be made out, 
 paid and receipted for their sojourn together. 
 She wondered, if Edward Conway found her, 
 and she decided to stay with Alan if Alan 
 did not wish her to go away she wondered 
 what people in London would say ; how they 
 would take it? She supposed that, in that 
 case, Edward Conway would make it the 
 business of his life to follow them round and 
 explain to every one the exact position in 
 which they were placed. Would it be better
 
 220 Wedlock 
 
 to tell everybody ? "Would the story get into 
 the papers ? Would it be blazoned from one 
 end of the world to the other that Alan 
 Stacey's wife had a story as romantic as any 
 of the thrilling pages which had come from 
 his pen ? 
 
 She bethought her, in her distress and anx- 
 iety, of a silly game called " Consequences," a 
 game in which the last clause is " And the 
 world said." . . . What would the world 
 say to them to her ? She did not know ; she 
 did not dare to think. Only she felt resolved 
 that so long as she could keep the secret she 
 would do so. 
 
 " And you will come back again, sir ? " she 
 heard the boniface say. 
 
 " Yes, I expect we shall come back again the 
 next time I have got a spell of hard work on 
 and want to get out of London. It is difficult 
 to work in London," she heard Alan answer ;
 
 To the Bitter End 221 
 
 " it is difficult to keep free of interruptions and 
 so on. We have enjoyed ourselves very much, 
 I can assure you." 
 
 Then she heard a heavy footfall entering the 
 house. Her anxious, strained ears told her 
 whose steps they were. They passed her door 
 to the sanded bar, and then she heard Edward 
 Con way's voice saying " You have a lady here 
 that is passing under the name of Stacey. 
 Which is her room ? " 
 
 Then there was a rush across the passage, 
 and Alan Stacey burst into the room and 
 caught her in his arms. 
 
 "My poor child," he said, "I have been 
 dreading this for weeks and weeks. The blow 
 has fallen at last." 
 
 And by some instinct Mary knew not only 
 that he had known the truth all along, but 
 that he had been the first of the two to 
 hear it.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 LET NO MAN PUT ASUNDER 
 
 THERE was only time for a hurried whisper 
 between them. 
 
 " You won't desert me you won't give me 
 over to him ? " she gasped. 
 
 "Never," he answered; "never, while I 
 live." 
 
 Then the door was pushed hurriedly open, 
 and Edward Conway's blunt features and burly 
 figure appeared before them. 
 
 It was apparent to the meanest observation 
 that the man was beside himself with passion. 
 He stood just within the doorway, his hands 
 thrust deep down into his trouser pockets, eye- 
 ing first one and then the other with his flinty 
 
 eyes, and upon his lips was a terrible sneer. 
 222
 
 Let No Man Put Asunder 223 
 
 ""Well, Mrs. Conway," he began at last; 
 " have you no sort of welcome for me your 
 long lost husband, given up for lost years since 
 your little more than bridegroom? Still 
 silent ? Have you nothing to say ? " 
 
 Her lips moved, but no sound came from be- 
 tween them. 
 
 " Still silent ? No fond word of greeting ? 
 Too much astonished, eh ? You made sure I 
 was dead and gone, didn't you ? But Edward 
 Conway is not got rid of so easily as that, 
 don't you think it. Edward Conway has been 
 under for a good long time, and Edward Con- 
 way has got up again, and he has come back 
 again to his happy home and his loving little 
 wife that he left behind him." 
 
 " You shall never come back to me ! I 
 would never have lived with you again you 
 knew it ! " 
 
 " Oh, you're thinking still of a bit of a tiff !
 
 224 Wedlock 
 
 What's that between husband and wife. Have 
 you never tiffed with this Johnny that you 
 took up with as soon as I was gone ? " 
 
 "This lady is my wife, sir," put in Alan 
 Stacey, with dignity. 
 
 Your what f " 
 
 " My wife, sir. Your turning up again, most 
 inopportunely, may annul our marriage; but 
 no slur will rest upon this lady. There is no- 
 body who knows her that will not pity her, 
 and pity her doubly, first, for having been 
 married to you at all, secondly, for having 
 been the victim of a terrible chain of circum- 
 stances. This lady did not take up with me 
 she married me with all due formality and 
 blessing of the Church. Until you have legal 
 proof that our marriage be no marriage, she is 
 my wife." 
 
 " She is coming back with me," said Ed- 
 ward Conway, shutting his teeth hard, and
 
 Let No Man Put Asunder 225 
 
 snapping the words out as if his lips were rat- 
 traps. 
 
 "She is never going with you she will 
 never have anything to do with you again 
 never. She would never have lived with you 
 again, under any circumstances. You took 
 advantage of her ; you bought her with a price. 
 You ill-used her ; I am ashamed to say it but 
 you struck her your little more than bride. 
 And you can ask her, when she has tasted the 
 sweets of a real marriage, when she has known 
 what it is to live with a man who would 
 thrust his hand into the fire rather than 
 raise it against a woman, you can ask her 
 to go back to the slavery and degradation 
 of life with you! Think, my good sir, is it 
 likely?" 
 
 " I don't know whether it's likely," said Ed- 
 ward Conway ; " I know what the law is, and 
 I mean to have it ! "
 
 226 Wedlock 
 
 " I will never go back to him never ! " 
 Mary flashed out. 
 
 " As for you, you Jack 'a Dandy," Edward 
 Conway went on, taking no notice of her in- 
 terruption, " I didn't know you this morning, 
 when I saw you standing talking at the old 
 man's door. I asked you if you knew some 
 people here who were passing under the name 
 of Stacey ? And you asked me what the man 
 was like, and what he did for a living ? I 
 told you that he scribbled novels, and that I 
 did not know what his appearance was. And 
 you told me that you had never met him ! " 
 
 " I never did," said Stacey, with deliberate 
 insolence. 
 
 " You told me that you did not know any- 
 thing about him ; and you sent me you sent 
 me you sent me to Roathlyn ! You told me 
 that there was somebody an artist, or a scrib- 
 bling chap, or somebody who lived by his
 
 Let No Man Put Asunder 227 
 
 wits, and who had a pretty woman with him, 
 staying at Eoathlyn. You thought you had 
 got rid of me, eh ? But you were beaten for 
 once in your life. You live by your wits, do 
 you? Eh? And other people have wits, if 
 they don't live by 'em ! I went down the 
 street, after we parted at the door here, and I 
 asked an old grandfather, who looked a cheery 
 old soul and likely to know the neighborhood, 
 I asked him if he knew any people of the 
 name of Stacey? He put me on the right 
 track. ' Why,' said he, ' that's the gentleman 
 who is living at the Powys Arms him I've 
 heard tell is writing a story-book.' Sc I came 
 back to find the gentleman who was writing a 
 story-book." 
 
 "Then," said Alan Stacey, his voice very 
 cutting and calm, " then my good sir, you can 
 go back again. This is not the place in which 
 to settle a dispute of this kind. I presume
 
 228 Wedlock 
 
 you have a lawyer ? I will give you the ad- 
 dress of mine. No power on earth can force 
 this lady to live with you again. She definitely 
 refuses the honor. Everybody in London 
 knows where I live or if there be any that 
 don't know they can very easily find out. I 
 will give you every information." 
 
 " You will give me my wife." 
 
 " That I never will. While I have breath 
 in my body, I will stick to the woman who 
 took me in good faith, for better for worse. 
 And if I know anything of my friends, they 
 will honor her more for staying with me than 
 they would if she went back to what some 
 people would call her duty and you." 
 
 "Lawyers!" repeated Edward Conway, 
 contemptuously ; " I don't believe in lawyers 
 between man and wife. Not a bit of it. It is 
 all simple and fair and above board. I want 
 nothing out of the way, but what I want /
 
 Let No Man Put Asunder 229 
 
 mean to have. I married yon white-faced 
 hussy because I was mad about her. I was a 
 fool, but men are always fools in that way. 
 I've been stuck on a desert island for nearly 
 six years, where I've had nothing to do but to 
 think about the wife who scorned me ; and I 
 thought and I thought that if ever I got 
 back I'd make her eat her words, I'd make her 
 come like a dog to my feet." 
 
 " Here, get out of this ! " said Stacey, break- 
 ing in ruthlessly upon his raving " Get out of 
 this ! There'll be no ' dog to your feet ' about 
 this lady ; so, my good fellow, put that out of 
 your mind at once. Take what steps you like. 
 Enter a divorce we shall not defend it 
 please yourself what you do, only take your- 
 self out of our way. That's all we ask. 
 At all events get out of this room. It's 
 mine." 
 
 " And that tha is my wife ! "
 
 230 Wedlock 
 
 "That's as may be settled in court after- 
 ward. Get out of my room." 
 
 " Not without my wife." 
 
 " I promise you you will, and you'll go a good 
 deal quicker than you like if you don't get out 
 at once. Now come ; I don't want to make a 
 scene or a row. You're an older man than I 
 am, and I don't wish to try which of us is the 
 better man of the two. At the same time 
 your presence is unpleasant to me, and dis- 
 tasteful to this lady, and the sooner you re- 
 lieve us of it the better. Now, out you go ! " 
 
 There was a momentary scuffle, and then 
 the door was shut, and Alan Stacey's back 
 was against it. He and Mary were on one 
 side of the door and Edward Conway was on 
 the other. 
 
 On his side Edward Conway began frantic- 
 ally to beat at the door ; then he kicked ; and 
 at last, when the stout panels showed signs of
 
 Let No Man Put Asunder 231 
 
 giving way, there was a sudden cessation of 
 the efforts to enter a pause a groan and 
 the sound of a heavy body tumbling to the 
 ground. 
 
 " Hush ! Something has happened," said 
 Stacey to Mary. 
 
 "Oh, Alan!" 
 
 " Yes ; they've all stopped talking ; I heard 
 the landlord's voice a minute ago. I shall 
 open the door." 
 
 "Oh, no; don't, Alan. He may shoot 
 you ! " 
 
 " No, no. Listen. He has had a fit." 
 
 And so it proved to be. The excitement, 
 the great mental struggle, and the physical 
 strain to which the unfortunate man had put 
 himself in trying to force open the door, had 
 all done their work. 
 
 When Alan opened the door, it was to find 
 Edward Conway on the stone floor of the
 
 232 Wedlock 
 
 passage in a fit of apoplexy, and Mary was 
 practically a free woman. They raised him 
 from the floor and carried him to bed but he 
 never spoke or showed signs of consciousness 
 again. For a few hours he lingered, breath- 
 ing heavily and with labor ; and during all 
 those hours of anxious waiting, Mary stayed 
 down on the beach, listening to the beating of 
 the waters upon the rock-bound coast, and 
 wondering, wondering, whether Providence 
 would be kind to her or not ? 
 
 Then Alan Stacey came down to tell her 
 that all was over. 
 
 " Dear," he said, " this has been a horrible 
 time for you. I knew as soon as the report 
 came that they had rescued some of the crew 
 of the Arikhama ; I saAv it in the evening pa- 
 pers. I have never been sure whether you 
 knew or not. Perhaps I was selfish to keep 
 it from you ; but I felt that I could not could
 
 Let No Man Put Asunder 233 
 
 not come and tell you what would put you 
 out of my life, out of my home although 
 nothing could ever put you out of my heart. 
 Nobody will know anything about it now 
 unless, indeed, by the merest chance, when 
 there would be neither blame nor ignominy 
 attached to either of us. I told the landlord 
 a lie. I told him that Conway had mistaken 
 you for somebody else and he believed it. I 
 told him that it would be very unpleasant for 
 you if, when his relations came down, you 
 were mixed up in the story in any way, and I 
 gave him a tenner to leave us out of the affair 
 as far as is possible. He was most sympathetic. 
 He will never trouble us. We will go back to 
 London at once we can get part of the way 
 to-night and as soon as possible we will be 
 quietly married in some out of the way church, 
 where nobody need know anything about us." 
 " Dear Alan," said she, " what out of the way
 
 234 Wedlock 
 
 church will you find where nobody will know 
 anything about you ? " 
 
 "Well, dear child, there are good souls in 
 the world, who would not hurt us by blazon- 
 ing forth this unhappy story. It is no great 
 matter if the world does know ; it will be cer- 
 tain sure then that you and I are fast tied in 
 Wedlock."
 
 A DAUGHTER OF 
 THE PHILISTINES 
 
 By LEONARD MERRICK 
 
 "His the kind one longs to find after trying 
 jnany and not meeting satisfaction." Times 
 Union t Albany. 
 
 44 A constantly increasing pleasure as you peruse 
 page after page." Evening Gazette, Boston. 
 
 " It is a good one and an interesting one." Buf- 
 falo Express. 
 
 44 A noteworthy novel." Chicago Tribune. 
 
 " He works out the situation to a fortunate con- 
 clusion." Book Buyer. 
 
 44 A distinctly good novel of real life." Boston 
 Times. 
 
 44 A capital story." New York Pre&. 
 
 44 It is a novel of more than usual interest .md 
 cannot fail of an abundant popularity." Army and 
 Wavy Journal. 
 
 "A delightful story." Cincinnati Enquirer. 
 
 44 Has a quality of its own." Literary World. 
 
 44 Unusually strong points."-l?itffalo Commercial 
 
 44 An extremely clever story." Albany Argus. 
 
 44 Interesting creation." Louisville Times. 
 
 44 With a feeling of loving regret I lay down the 
 book." Evening Record. 
 
 44 An interesting and well told tale." Evening 
 Star, Washington. 
 
 ^ 44 An extremely clever tale." ludianapolis Sen- 
 Hnel. 
 
 44 More than usually interesting." News t In- 
 dianapolis. 
 
 44 An excellent story well told." Rochester 
 Herald. 
 
 44 Starts upon a good literary level, and maintains 
 ft to the end, and never for a moment degen- 
 erates ..... One sits through the story with gen- 
 uine pleasure, and rises from the reading of it with 
 indubitable refreshment." Daily Chronicle. 
 
 t doth, $1.1.5 
 R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
 
 t cloth, $1-25 
 
 THE DAGGER 
 AND THE CROSS 
 
 BY 
 
 JOSEPH HATTON 
 
 Author of " By Order of the Czar." 
 Jt Jt 4* 
 
 *' Most dramatic manner Deserves to rank 
 
 well up in current fiction." Minneapolis Tribune. 
 
 *' Villainy of the deepest die, heroism of the high- 
 est sort, beauty wronged and long suffering, virtue 
 finally rewarded, thrills without number." Si. 
 Louis Globe-Democrat. 
 
 ' ' Clean wholesome story, which should take 
 prominent place in current fiction." Chicago 
 Record. 
 
 " Finely conceived and finely written." Toledo 
 Blade. 
 
 " This is his masterpiece." Buffalo Express. 
 
 " The chief merit is the account of the Plague in 
 
 Eyam It is a true story and Eyam is a real 
 
 village." Boston Journal. 
 
 "Weird and interesting to the point of being 
 absorbing. The only way to get the story is to 
 read it " St. Louis Star. 
 
 "Seventeenth century romance steeped in the 
 traditions of the Church and of the times.'' Detroit 
 Journal. 
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
 
 , cloth, 
 
 THE CEDAR STAR 
 
 BY 
 MARY E. MANN 
 
 Author of ''Susannah." 
 
 
 
 *' An admirable piece of work, and is worth a 
 crowd of far more pretentious productions." 
 News and Courier \ Charleston , S.C. 
 
 " Heartily alive and extremely well written." 
 Boston Gazette. 
 
 "Resembles some of Stockton's works." Pitts- 
 burg Press. 
 
 " Takes high rank among a decade's array of en- 
 tertaining books." Boston Courier. 
 
 " Possessing among other merits that of original 
 detail." 'Cincinnati Times-Star. 
 
 "The author has a very genius for clever charac- 
 ter-drawing. ' ' Detroit Journal. 
 
 "There is much force and action," Boston 
 Herald. 
 
 "Intense human interest." Bulletin. 
 
 " The author has a genius for clever character 
 drawing." Baltimore American. 
 
 " An unusually pleasing novel and well written." 
 
 Philadelphia Press. 
 
 "A charming book, beginning with good chapters 
 rf child-life, and containing memorable figures, 
 notably Billy the Curate and Betty herself. Betty 
 is, indeed, quite a discovery." London Academy* 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 E. F. FENNO & COMPANY
 
 izmo, cloth, $1.25 
 
 BY 
 
 LEONARD MERRICK 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 * A Daughter of the Philistiees, " " One Man's Views. 
 
 V V 
 
 " A second success An exceptionally able 
 
 novel." Literary Review. 
 
 " Remarkable for its splendid delineation of 
 character.its workmanship and natural arrangement 
 of plot." Chicago Daily News. 
 
 1 ' Has distinction of style and character, dramatic 
 force and literary effectiveness." Phila. Press. 
 
 " An intensely dramatic story, and written with 
 force and precision." New York Times. 
 
 " Mr. Merrick's work is of a very high quality. 
 Is the most masterly of his three books." Chicago 
 Tribune. 
 
 "The delicacy of the character sketching has a 
 brilliancy and fascination strangely magnetic." 
 Minneapolis Tribune. 
 
 " Is a forceful, dramatic and altogether human 
 story of English life. ' ' Boston Times. 
 
 " Strong story." Chicago Record. 
 
 "It is useless to say that so strong, so fierce a 
 book must be written well." Chicago Times- 
 Herald. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 R, F. FENNO & COMPANY
 
 izmo, cloth, $1.25 
 
 DEFIANT HEARTS 
 
 BY 
 
 W. HEIMBURG 
 
 AUTHOR OP 
 
 "My Heart's Darling," "Her Only Brother," "Tales of 
 an Old Castle," Etc., Etc. 
 
 
 
 " The story is true to life in some of its manifold 
 phases and will repay reading." Minneapolis 
 Tribune. 
 
 " It is written in the usual entertaining style of 
 this well known author." Boston Courier. 
 
 "Very good reading." New Orleans Picayune. 
 
 "The action is vigorous and the story is interest- 
 ing." Public Opinion." 
 
 "Capital story by an established favorite." 
 Philadelphia American. 
 
 " Is a charming German story by the author of 
 "Heart's Darling," "Good Luck," " Her Only 
 Brother," etc." Southern Star. 
 
 "It possesses the positive virtue of being pure 
 and wholesome in sentiment. '' Detroit Free Press. 
 
 " It comprises all the many qualities of romance 
 that recommend all Heimburg's other stories." 
 New Haven Journal. 
 
 " It is simple, but dignified and free from any of 
 those smirches that suggest the presence of vice and 
 impurity." N. Y. Home Journal. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 R. F. FENNO & COMPANr
 
 Iftno, cloth, $1.25 
 
 THE MASSARENES 
 
 By OUIDA 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 * dNBRR TWO FI.AGS," " WANDA," BTC. 
 
 'The finish of the story is as artistic as is that 
 Of 'Vanity Fair' " N. Y. Journal. 
 
 " Ouida in her old age has written her best book.*' 
 Evening Sun. 
 
 " It is the strongest she has written with thepos- 
 rible exception of 'Under Two Flags.' " N. Y.JPress 
 
 " Ouida beats them all; her latest story is more 
 wicked than those of the modern sensationalist, 
 and better told. Chicago Journal. 
 
 " In some respects the ablest of all her books. " 
 Jf. Y. Herald. 
 
 " There is not a dull page in the ntnc ; . " Boston 
 Gazette. 
 
 " Ouida's stories are never dull, aad this one is 
 quite as lively as any of the others.*' Army and 
 Navy Register. 
 
 " She has not lost any of her cynicism nor any of 
 her skill to weave a seductive plot." Boston Globe. 
 
 "There is a distinct moral purpose running all 
 through the book, a purpose which it will be im- 
 possible for the most careless reader to overlook. " 
 7%e Beacon, Boston. 
 
 "A clever story of English high life as it is re- 
 presented to-day." The Bookseller. 
 
 " A decided story- interest and some clever char- 
 acter drawing." The Outlook. 
 
 " Katherine Massarene is drawn with a skill that 
 one of the best female characters that 
 *' h.s given us. " Public Opinion. 
 
 : R. F. FENNO & COMP4 NY
 
 A 000132170 2