She weighed it well in her mind. She looked at it in every way, but the more she thought of it the more impossible it seemed. She could not bring disgrace on her husband and live. She could not doom her only child to sorrow and shame, yet live. She could not bear the ignominy of the exposure. She, who had been so proud of her fair fame, of her spotless name, her high reputation. It was not possible. She could not bear it. Her hands trembled. All the strength seemed to leave her. She fell half-fainting—moaning with white lips that she could not bear it and live.
Must she die? Must she part with the sweet, warm life that filled her veins? Must she seek death because she could no longer live?
No, she dare not.
"I cannot live and I dare not die," she moaned. "I am utterly wretched, utterly hopeless and miserable. Life and death alike are full of terrors for me."
What should she do? Through the long, burning hours, through the long, dreary nights, she asked herself that question—What should she do?
Her husband, alarmed at her white face and altered manner, talked of summoning a physician to her. Her friends advised change of air, but there was no human help for her.
Then, when mind and brain alike were overdone, when the strained nerves gave way, when the fever of fear and suspense rose to its height, she thought of flight. That was the only recourse left to her—flight! Then she would escape the terrors of death and the horror of life. Flight was the only resource left to her. The poor, bewildered mind, groping so darkly, fixed on this one idea. She would not kill herself. That would deprive her of all hope in another world. She dare not live her present life, but flight would save her.
People would only think she was mad for running away, and surely when Allan Lyster saw what he had done he would relent and persecute her no more.
She was not herself when she stole so quietly from home and went disguised to the station. She was half delirious with fear and dread; her brain whirled, her heart beat, every moment she dreaded to see Allan Lyster pursuing her. Her only idea was to get away from him, safe in some refuge where he could not find her.
She little dreamed that in the hurry of her flight she had dropped Allan Lyster's letter—the letter in which he threatened to tell her husband—the letter which drove her mad, and sent her from home. She had intended to destroy it; she believed she had done so; but the fact was, it had fallen from her hands on the floor, and she never thought of it again. Her maid, thinking it might be of consequence, picked it up and laid it on the mantelshelf. Only God knows what would have become of Lady Atherton but for this oversight.