"Oh, yes. I was telling you why I was so desperate that day; I thought you would not understand. I think a madness was in my blood. You see, it was very hard, and I was so young I could not see the justice of it. I had been his toy—his plaything—and now, broken and useless, he cast me into the mire of the street, while he—and lady, my sin had been his sin too—to-morrow he would marry a pure girl, such as I had been, and the world would look on and wish him joy and think it right....
"He had not told me where the marriage was to be, nor who the girl was. But the next morning I went to his home and waited in a place near by for him to come out. I did not mean to speak to him again—only to follow him. For hours I waited. I was faint from lack of food, but I was afraid to leave the spot for fear of missing him. At last a gentleman came out and drove off, and then the man I loved and hated. A carriage was waiting and he was driven away. I ran after it. I would have hired a cab only I had no money. I could not run so very fast, you know, and sometimes I almost stumbled and fell—then caught myself and hurried on. And though it gained on me I kept my eye on the carriage. At Sixteenth street it turned south toward the Square, and then I knew it was going to St. John's."
"St. John's!"
"Yes. You know the place? It is near Lafayette Square—the old church with the columns in front. When I got there, out of breath and almost dead from running, a crowd was on the sidewalk and even out into the street waiting for the bridal party to come out. They would have crowded around the very door but that policemen kept them back. I elbowed my way through them and was so desperate and violent that they made way for me, thinking I was some crazy woman—as indeed I almost think myself I was.
"As I reached the door a policeman caught me by the arm, but I jerked away and cried. 'I will go in! He is my husband—mine!' And then I beat upon the door before they could stop me and screamed again, 'He is my husband!' At that they overpowered me and dragged me off—somewhere—I don't know—to the station, I believe. That night my baby was born."
"How old is your child?" asked Margaret, her voice so strained and hard that the sick woman looked up surprised.
"Six years. Have I tired you with my story? I did not mean to be so long."
"Go on. It interests me deeply," answered Margaret, with irony unnoticed by the sick woman. "I am learning that we all are bound up in one another's woes—and wickedness." After a moment she asked with a tinge of bitterness, "And was no voice lifted to save this girl?"
"I cannot tell. I never saw her—do not know her name or where she lived. But this I know; that in time he would be false to her as he was false to me. It was not in him to be—"
"Let us not talk of him," said Margaret, hastily. "Tell me about yourself? How did you live?"