“Fie! fie! what would people say of a literary woman’s menage, were these things seen?”
Presently, when her head stopped reeling, she would pick them up and straighten the slumber-robe, all crumpled together on the foot of the lounge, the pillow of which was indented by Barton’s head. Sitting bolt upright, she stared at robe and cushion, so eloquent of her husband’s recent presence. Her eyes were dry with misery, her features worked into sharpness. She looked, not six, but twenty years older than the hale man who had lain there, indolent and at ease, while she turned wretchedly upon her bed throughout the tedious afternoon.
Oh, the dead Past! Oh, murdered Love!
“He said that no pure woman would have written that book,” she murmured. “He must never know! Why, he would turn me into the street to-night, if he found it out.”
She crossed the room, catching at the furniture as she staggered along to the secretary. The key hung upon a hidden hook under the drawers. She felt for it, opened the central compartment of the escritoire, and took out an old, roomy portfolio. There were papers in it that must be destroyed. She meant to do it before she was taken ill, but everything had been so sudden. It would never do to leave them for other eyes in case of her death. While she fumbled in the pockets and drew out the MSS. she checked herself in repeating irrelevant rhymes:
“That husbands could be cruel,
I have known for seasons three,
But, oh! to ride Vindictive while a baby cries for me.”
“If only my head would be steady and clear again for five minutes!”
The portfolio was nearly emptied into her lap when an awful voice from the doorway said: