40+ Adventure Novels & Lost World Mysteries in One Premium Edition. Henry Rider Haggard

more dreadful to me than she has said already, Dr. Williamson."

      "Perhaps not. Go if you like. If you were revengeful—which I am sure you are not—you would have good reason to be satisfied at what you will see. Medically speaking, it is a sad case."

      Accordingly, that every afternoon, Angela, accompanied by Pigott, started off for Rewtham House, where Lady Bellamy still lived, or rather existed. It was her first outing since the inquest on George Caresfoot had caused her and her history to become publicly notorious, and, as she walked along, she was surprised to find that she was the object of popular sympathy. Every man she met touched or took off his hat, according to his degree, and, as soon as she had passed, turned round and stared at her. Some fine folks whom she did not know— indeed, she knew no one, though it had been the fashion to send and "inquire" during her illness—drove past in an open carriage and pair, and she saw a gentleman on the front seat whisper something to the ladies, bringing round their heads towards her as simultaneously as though they both worked on a single wire. Even the children coming out of the village school set up a cheer as she passed.

      "Good gracious, Pigott, what is it all about?" she asked, at last.

      "Well, you see, miss, they talk of you in the papers as the 'Abbey

       House heroine'—and heroines is rare in these parts."

      Overwhelmed with so much attention, Angela was thankful when at last they reached Rewtham House.

      Pigott went into the housekeeper's room, and Angela was at once shown up into the drawing-room. The servant announced her name to a black- robed figure lying on a sofa, and closed the door.

      "Come here, Angela Caresfoot," said a well-known voice, "and see how

       Fate has repaid the woman who tried to ruin you."

      She advanced and looked at the deathly face, still as darkly beautiful as ever, on which was fixed that strange look of wild expectancy that it had worn when its owner took the poison.

      "Yes, look at me; think what I was, and then what I am, and learn how the Spirit of evil pays those who serve him. I thought to kill myself, but death was denied me, and now I live as you see me. I am an outcast from the society of my kind—not that I ever cared for that, except to rule it. I cannot stir hand or foot, I cannot write, I can scarcely read, I cannot even die. My only resource is the bitter sea of thought that seethes eternally in this stricken frame like fire pent in the womb of a volcano. Yes, Angela Caresfoot, and like the fire, too, sometimes it overflows, and then I can blaspheme and rave aloud till my voice fails. That is the only power which is left to me."

      Angela uttered an exclamation of pity.

      "Pity—do not pity me; I will not be pitied by you. Mock me if you will; it is your turn now. You prophesied that it would come; now it is here."

      "At any rate, you are still comfortable in your own house," said Angela, nervously, anxious to change the subject, and not knowing what to say.

      "Oh! yes, I have money enough, if that is what you mean. My husband threatened to leave me destitute, but fear of public opinion—and I hear that he has run away, and is not well thought of now—or perhaps of myself, cripple as I am, caused him to change his mind. But do not let us talk of that poor creature. I sent for you here for a purpose. Where is your lover?"

      Angela turned pale and trembled.

      "What, do you not know, or are you tired of him?"

      "Tired of him! I shall never be tired of him; but he has gone."

      "Shall I tell you where to find him?"

      "You would not if you could; you would deceive me again."

      "No, oddly enough, I shall not. I have no longer any object in doing so. When I was bent upon marrying you to George Caresfoot, I lashed myself into hating you; now I hate you no longer, I respect you— indeed, I have done so all along."

      "Then, why did you work me such a bitter wrong?"

      "Because I was forced to. Believe me or not as you will, I am not going to tell you the story—at any rate, not now. I can only repeat that I was forced to."

      "Where is Arthur?"

      "In Madeira. Do you remember once telling me that you had only to lift your hand—so—ah! I forgot, I cannot lift mine—to draw him back to you, that no other woman in the world could keep him from you if you chose to bid him come?"

      "Yes, I remember."

      "Then, if you wish to get him back, you had better exercise your power, for he has gone to another woman."

      "Who is she? What is she like?"

      "She is a young widow—a Mrs. Carr. She is desperately in love with him—very beautiful and very rich."

      "Beautiful! How do you mean? Tell me exactly what she is like."

      "She has brown eyes, brown hair, a lovely complexion, and a perfect figure."

      Angela glanced rapidly at her own reflection in the glass and sighed.

      "Then I fear that I shall have no chance against her—none!"

      "You are a fool! if you were alone in the same room with her, nobody would see her for looking at you."

      Angela sighed again, this time from relief.

      "But there is worse than that; very possibly he has married her."

      "Ah! then it is all over!"

      "Why? If he loves you as much as you think, you can bring him back to you, married or unmarried."

      "Perhaps. Yes, I think I could; but I would not."

      "Why? If he loves you and you love him, you have a right to him. Among all the shams and fictions that we call laws, there is only one true— the law of Nature, by virtue of which you belong to each other."

      "No, there is a higher law—the law of duty, by means of which we try to curb the impulses of Nature. The woman who has won him has a right to consideration."

      "Then, to gratify a foolish prejudice, you are prepared to lose him forever?"

      "No, Lady Bellamy; if I thought that I was to lose him for ever, I might be tempted to do what is wrong in order to be with him for a time; but I do not think that. I only lose him for a time that I may gain him for ever. In this world he is separated from me, in the worlds to come my rights will assert themselves, and we shall be together, and never part any more."

      Lady Bellamy looked at her wonderingly, for her eyes could still express her emotions.

      "You are a fine creature," she said, "and, if you believe that, perhaps it will be true for you, since Faith must be the measure of realization. But, after all, he may not have married her. That will be for you to find out."

      "How can I find out?"

      "By writing to him, of course—to the care of Mrs. Carr, Madeira. That is sure to find him."

      "Thank you. How can I thank you enough?"

      "It seems to me that you owe me few thanks. You are always foolish about what tends to secure your own happiness, or you would have thought of this before."

      There was a pause, and then Angela rose to go.

      "Are you going. Yes, go. I am not fit company for such as you. Perhaps we shall not meet again; but, in thinking of all the injuries that I have done you, remember that my punishment is proportionate to my sin. They tell me that I may live for years."

      Angela gazed at the splendid wreck beneath her, and an infinite pity swelled in her gentle heart. Stooping, she kissed her on the forehead. A wild astonishment filled Lady Bellamy's great, dark eyes.

      "Child, child, what are you doing? you do not know what I am, or you would not kiss me!"

      "Yes, Lady Bellamy," she said, quietly, "I do, that is, I know what you have been; but I want to forget that. Perhaps you will one day be able to forget it too.