She learned, however, that she was too fearful, that he was trading on her alarm, that he could not bring an action against her, because at the time that promise had been given she was a ward and not of age. She wrote and told him that his threat was in vain.
It was the answer to that question that drove her from home a fugitive, that exiled her from all she loved, that drove her mad with terror.
He wrote to her and admitted that her argument was perfectly just, that perhaps in strict legal bounds he could not maintain such an action; but the shame and exposure for her, he told her, would be none the less.
"If you persist in your refusal," he wrote, "I shall go at once to Lord Atherton. 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.
She did not write, but there came another note from him saying that unless he heard from her that the money was coming he would wait upon her husband on Friday morning and tell him all.
There was no further respite for her—the sword had fallen—she could not live and face it; she could not live knowing that her husband was to read those words of her folly, that he was to know all the deceit, the clandestine correspondence that weighed now so bear it.
"I shall never look in his face again," she said to herself. "I could never bear that he should see me after he knows that."