"Looking for me? Me! Oh, the shame of it, the shame!" Then with sudden fright: "But he must not find me! He shall not find me! You won't let him find me, will you, Martha?" Her arms were now tight about the old woman's neck, her agonized face turning wildly toward the door, as if she thought that Felix were already there. "You don't think he wants to kill me, do you?" she whispered at last, her face hidden in the nurse's neck.

Martha folded her own strong arms about the shaking woman, warming and comforting her, as she had warmed and comforted the child. She would go through with it now to the end.

"No, it's not you he wants to kill," she said firmly, when the trembling figure was still.

Lady Barbara loosened her grasp and stared at her companion. "Then what does he want to see me for?" she asked, in a dazed, distracted tone.

"He wants to help you. He never forgets that you were his wife. He'll have his arms around you the moment he gets his eyes on you, and all your troubles will be over."

"But I do not want his help and I won't accept his help," she exclaimed, drawing herself up. "And I won't see him if he comes! You must not let me see him! Promise me you won't! And he must not find"--she hesitated as if unwilling to p.r.o.nounce the name--"he must not find Mr. Dalton.

There has been scandal enough. You do not think he wants to find Mr.

Dalton, too, do you, Martha?" she added slowly, as if some new terror were growing on her.

"That's what Stephen thinks--find him and kill him. That's why he wanted you to listen last night. That's why he wants to get you and Mr. Felix together. Mr. Dalton won't stay here if he knows Mr. Felix is looking for him. He's too big a coward."

Lady Barbara shivered, drew her gown closer, and sank to the bed again, gazing straight before her. "Yes, that is what will happen, Martha--he would kill him. I see it all now. That is what would have happened to our gardener who ruined the gatekeeper's daughter, if the man had not left England. She was only a girl--hardly grown; yes, it all comes back to me. I remember what my husband did." She was still speaking under her breath, reciting the story more to herself than to Martha, her voice rising and falling, at times hardly audible. "Nothing--happened then--because my husband--did not find the man."

She faced the nurse again. "You won't let him come here, will you, Martha?"

"He'll come, my lady, if Stephen can get hold of him," came the positive reply. "He had a room in a lodging-house not far from here, but he left it, and Stephen doesn't know where he's gone. But he'll turn up again down at the shop, and then--"

"But you must not let him come," she burst out.

Again she sat upright. "I won't have it--please--PLEASE! I will go away if you do, where n.o.body will ever find me. I could not have him see me--see me like this." She looked at her thin hands and over her shabby gown. "Not like THIS!"

"No, you won't go away, my lady." There was a ring of authority now in the nurse's voice. "You'll stay here. It's the only way out of this misery for you. As for Mr. Felix and that scoundrel who has ruined you, Mr. Felix will take care of him. But I'm going to let Mr. Felix in, if the dear Lord will let him come. Mr. Felix loves you and--"

Her body stiffened. "He never loved me. He only loved his father," she cried angrily, and again she sank back on her pillow. "All my misery came from that."

Martha bent closer. "You never got that right, my lady," she returned firmly. "You mustn't get angry with me, for I got to let it all out."

She was the nurse no longer; no matter what happened, she would unburden her heart. "Mr. Felix isn't like other men. He stood by his father and helped him when he was in trouble, just as he'll stand by and help you, just as he helps everybody--Tom Moulton's daughter for one, that he picked up on the streets of London and sent home to her mother. If he'd killed Sam Lawson, who ruined her, he'd have given him what he deserved; and if he kills this man Dalton, he won't give him half what he deserves or what's coming to him sooner or later. Dalton isn't fit to live. He got Sir Carroll O'Day all tangled up so that his character and all his money was hanging by a thread, and then, when Mr. Felix gave up what he had to save Sir Carroll, Dalton coaxed you away. You didn't know that, did you? But it's true. That man Dalton ruined Mr. Felix's father. Oh, I know it all--and I have known it for a long time. Stephen told me all about it. No, don't stop me, my lady! I'm your old Martha, who's nursed you and sat by you many a night, and I'll never stop loving you as long as I live. I don't care what you do to me or what you have done to yourself. Your leaving Mr. Felix was like a good many other things you used to do when you were crossed. You would have your way, just as your father will have his way, no matter who is hurt. What Lord Carnavon wants, he wants, and there is no stopping him. Anybody else but his lordship would have hushed the matter up, instead of ruining everybody.

But that's all past now; I don't love you any less for it; I'm only sorrier and sorrier for you every time I think of it. Now we've got to make another start. Stephen'll help and I'll work my fingers to the bone for you--and Mr. Felix'll help most of all."

Except for the gesture of surprise when Dalton's part in the ruin of her husband's father was mentioned, Lady Barbara had listened to the breathless outburst without moving her head. Even when the words cut deepest she had made no protest. She knew the nurse's heart, and that every word was meant for her good. Her utter helplessness, too, confronted her, surrounded as she was by conditions she could neither withstand nor evade.

"And if he comes, Martha," she asked in a low, resigned voice, "what will happen then?"

"He'll get you out of this--take you where you needn't work the soul out of you."

"Pay for my support, you mean?" she asked, with a certain dignity.

"Of course; why not?"

"Never--NEVER! I will never touch a penny of his money--I would rather starve than do it!"

"Oh, it wouldn't be much--he's as poor as any of us. When Stephen saw him last, all he had was a rubber coat to keep him warm. But little as he has you'll get half or all of it."

"Poor as--any of us! Oh, my G.o.d, Martha!" she groaned, covering her face with her hands. "I never thought it would come to that--I never thought he could be poor! I never thought he would suffer in that way. And it is my fault, Martha--all of it! You must not think I do not see it! Every word you say is true--and every one else knows that it is true. It was all vanity and selfishness and stubbornness, never caring whom I hurt, so that I had the things I wanted. I put the blame on my husband a while ago because I did not want you to hate me too much. All the women who do wrong talk that way, hoping for some comforting word in their misery.

But it is I who am to blame, not he. I talk that way to myself in the night when I lie awake until I nearly lose my mind. Sometimes, too, I try to cheat myself by thinking that all these terrible things might not have happened had G.o.d not taken my baby. But I don't know. They might have happened just the same, my head was so full of all that was wicked.

When I think of that, I am glad the baby died. It could never have called me mother. Oh, Martha, Martha, take me in your arms again--yes, like that--close against your breast! Kiss me, Martha, as you used to do when I was little! You do love me, don't you? And you will promise not to let my husband see me? And now go away, please, and leave me alone. I cannot stand any more."

Chapter XVI

The talk with Father Cruse, while it had calmed and, to a certain extent, rea.s.sured Felix, had not in any way swerved him from his determination to find his wife at any cost.

The only change he made in his plans was one of locality. Heretofore, with the exception of his visits to Stephen--long since discontinued now that he feared she was an outcast--he had mingled with the throngs crowding the Great White Way ablaze with light or had haunted the doors of the popular theatres and expensive restaurants, and the waiting-rooms of the more fashionable hotels. After this it must be the byways, places where the poor or worse would congregate: cheap eating-houses; barrooms, with so-called "family rooms" attached; and always the streets at a distance from those trodden by the rich and prosperous cla.s.ses. Father Cruse might have been right in his diagnosis, and the sleeve-b.u.t.ton might form but a minor link in the chain of events circling the problem to the solution of which he had again consecrated his life, but certain it was that the clew Kitty had discovered had only strengthened his own convictions. If the woman whom Kitty had picked up some months before, and put to bed, were not his wife, she must certainly have been near her person; which still meant not only poverty but the possibility of Dalton's having abandoned her. Possibly, too, this woman, whose outside garments had contrasted so strangely with her more sumptuous underwear, might have been an inmate of the same house in which his wife was living--some one, perhaps, in whom his wife had had confidence.

Perhaps--no! That was impossible. Whatever the depths of suffering into which his wife had fallen, she had not yet reached the pit--of that he was convinced. If he were mistaken--at the thought his fingers tightened, and his heavy eyebrows and thin, drawn lips became two parallel straight lines--then he would know exactly what to do.

These convictions filled his mind when, having bid good-by to Kitty--who knew nothing of his interview with the priest--he b.u.t.toned his mackintosh close up to his throat, tucked his blackthorn stick under his arm, and, pressing his hat well on his head, bent his steps toward the East Side. A light rain was falling and most of the pa.s.sers-by were carrying umbrellas. Overhead thundered the trains of the Elevated--a continuous line of lights flashing through the clouds of mist.

Underneath stretched Third Avenue, its perspective dimmed in a slowly gathering fog.

As he tramped on, the brim of his soft hat shadowing his brow, he scanned without ceasing the faces of those he pa.s.sed: the men with collars turned up, the women under the umbrellas--especially those with small feet. At 28th Street he entered a cheap restaurant, its bill of fare, written on a pasteboard card and tacked on the outside, indicating the modest prices of the several viands.

He had had no particular reason for selecting this eating-house from among the others. He had pa.s.sed several just like it, and was only accustoming himself to his new line of search; for that purpose, one eating-house was as good as another.

Drawing out a chair from a table, he sat down and ran his eye over the interior.

What he saw was a collection of small tables, flanked by wooden chairs, their tops covered with white cloths and surmounted by cheap casters, a long bar with the usual glistening accessories, and a flight of steps which led to the floor above. His entrance, quiet as it had been, had evidently attracted some attention, for a waiter in a once-white ap.r.o.n detached himself from a group of men in the far corner of the room and, picking up, as he pa.s.sed, a printed card from a table, asked him what he would have to eat.

"Nothing--not now. I will sit here and smoke." He loosened his mackintosh and drew his pipe from his pocket, adding: "Hand me a match, please."

The waiter looked at him dubiously. "Ain't you goin' to order nothin'?"

"Not yet--perhaps not at all. Do you object to my smoking here?"

"Don't object to nothin', but this ain't no place to warm up in, see!"

Felix looked at him, and a faint smile played about his lips--the first that had lightened them all day. "I shan't ask you to start a fresh fire," he said in a decided tone; "and now, do as I bid you, and pa.s.s me that box of matches."

The man caught the tone and expression, placed the box beside him, and joined the group in the rear. There was a whispered conference, and a stout man wearing a dingy jacket disengaged himself from the others and lounged toward Felix.

"Nasty night," he began. "Had a lot of this weather this month. Never see a December like it."

"Yes, a bad night. Your servant seemed to think I was in the way. Are you the proprietor?"

"Well, I am one of them. Why?"

"Nothing--only I hoped to find you more hospitable."

"Oh, smoke away--guess we can stand it, if you can. Dinner's over"--he looked at the big clock decorating the white wall--"but they'll be piling in here after the theatres is out. You live around here?"

"No, not immediately."

"Looking for any one?"