I will show him those letters, and ask him in justice to give
me some share of the fortune he has deprived me of. I shall read every
word to him, and tell him all that took place; he may judge between us."
The letter fell from her nerveless hands, and Marion, Lady Atherton,
fell on her knees with a cry of despair. She was powerless to help
herself, she could do nothing, she could get no more money; and even if
she could of what avail? If she sent this, in a few weeks or months at
the farthest, he would renew his demand, and she could not do more. The
sword must fall, as well now as in a year's time; besides, the suspense
was killing her. The long strain upon her nerves began to tell at last.
She was fast, losing her health and strength; she could not eat nor
sleep; she was as one beside herself; frightful dreams, dread that knew
no words, fear that could not be destroyed, pursued her. She grew so
pale, so thin, so nervous, that Lord Atherton was alarmed about her.
If she had loved her husband less her despair would not have been so
great. Sooner than he should read those ill-considered words--those
protestations of love that made her face flush with flame--sooner than
he should read those she would die any death. For it had come to that;
she looked for death to save her. She felt powerless in the hands of a
villain who would never cease to persecute her.
She sent no answer to the letter. What could she say? She made one or
two despairing efforts to get the money, found it impossible, then gave
herself up for lost.
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