“How came she to marry him? Did she not tell you that?” asked the barrister.
“Not at that time, but she has told me all her history since. I went to see her the next evening at the same hour, and found her pale and ill, and unlike herself. She had had a violent quarrel with her husband, who had subjected her to gross insult on the previous night; she had refused to go out this evening, and I stayed with her until late, and tried to cheer her. We talked of Severntown, and of her childhood. She never remembered her mother; she had always understood that her mother died when she was but a child. She dare not tell me, she said, how her younger life had been spent, lest I should despise her; but she would tell me by-and-by. The more she said to prevent me from loving her, the more my sympathies were excited, and I laid down a plan whereby she should leave her husband the next day, if she would.”
“Rash—rash boy!” exclaimed Mr. Williamson.
“I know it. I felt afterwards, in sober moments, that I had behaved most foolishly, but I could not help it. The next morning twice the money I wanted reached me from Barton Hall, and this determined my course of action.”
“Why did you not tell me of it at the time?”
“I dare not; I seemed to be impelled by an infatuation that overcame me completely. I went and hired a modest lodging for her out at Pimlico, not far from where the Dibbles lived; and that evening at six I went again, told her what I had done, and implored her to come with me. She was paler and weaker than when I saw her the evening previously, and wandered a little in her talk. I told her she should not want—she should be kindly treated—and talked of happiness in a distant land. I hardly know what I said. She came with me, and she has never rallied since; she is very ill, and somehow I do not think she will live, and I love her so much, that if she should die, I think it would drive me mad.”
And then the young fellow threw his arms upon the table, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed like a child.
“Poor fellow!” said the barrister, “poor fellow!”
“Now, call me a fool, or what you like,” said Paul, in broken accents. “This is my trouble, and this my reason for going to town by the next train. I came with you to tell you my story; it has been breaking my heart, and I know you are my best friend.”
“Yes, yes,” said the barrister, taking Paul’s hand; “we are nearer and dearer friends than ever now, heaven help us! I will tell you of my trouble some day, Paul. But about this poor woman: has she had medical advice?”