I walked back as far as the Obelisk with the O'Kelly and the Signora, who were then living together in Lambeth. Till that morning I had not seen the O'Kelly since my departure from London, nearly two years before, so that we had much to tell each other. For the third time now had the O'Kelly proved his utter unworthiness to be the husband of the lady to whom he still referred as his “dear good wife.”
“But, under the circumstances, would it not be better,” I suggested, “for her to obtain a divorce? Then you and the Signora could marry and there would be an end to the whole trouble.”
“From a strictly worldly point of view,” replied the O'Kelly, “it certainly would be; but Mrs. O'Kelly”—his voice took to itself unconsciously a tone of reverence—“is not an ordinary woman. You can have no conception, my dear Kelver, of her goodness. I had a letter from her only two months ago, a few weeks after the—the last occurrence. Not one word of reproach, only that if I trespassed against her even unto seven times seven she would still consider it her duty to forgive me; that the 'home' would always be there for me to return to and repent.”
A tear stood in the O'Kelly's eye. “A beautiful nature,” he commented. “There are not many women like her.”
“Not one in a million!” added the Signora, with enthusiasm.
“Well, to me it seems like pure obstinacy,” I said.
The O'Kelly spoke quite angrily. “Don't ye say a word against her! I won't listen to it. Ye don't understand her. She never will despair of reforming me.”
“You see, Mr. Kelver,” explained the Signora, “the whole difficulty arises from my unfortunate profession. It is impossible for me to keep out of dear Willie's way. If I could earn my living by any other means, I would; but I can't. And when he sees my name upon the posters, it's all over with him.”
“I do wish, Willie, dear,” added the Signora in tones of gentle reproof, “that you were not quite so weak.”
“Me dear,” replied the O'Kelly, “ye don't know how attractive ye are or ye wouldn't blame me.”