"It was one night, when she thought herself dying, that she told me her story—told me everything, my lady—who she had been, who she was, and what she was coming across for. My lady, nobody could be sorrier than she was then. I pitied her, by George, more than I ever pitied any one before in my life. She had been unhappy and remorseful for a long time, but she was in despair. It was too late for repentance, she thought. There was nothing for it but to go on to the dreadful end. Sometimes, when she was almost mad, she—well, she took to drink, you know, and he wasn't in any way a good or kind protector to her—Thorndyke wasn't."
My lady flung up both arms with a shrill scream.
"Not that name," she cried—"not that accursed name, if you would not drive me mad!"
"I beg your pardon!" said Mr. Parmalee; "I won't. Well, she heard of your father's death—he told her, you see—and that completed her despair. She took to drink worse and worse; she got out of all bounds—sort of frantic, you see. Twice she tried to kill herself—once by poison, once by drowning; and both times he—you know who I mean—caught her and stopped her. He hadn't even mercy enough on her, she says, to let her die!"
"For God's sake, don't tell me of those horrors!" my lady cried, in agony. "I feel as though I were going mad."
"It is hard," said the artist, "but I can't help it—it's true, all the same. She heard of your marriage to Sir Everard Kingsland next. It was the last thing he ever taunted her with; for, crazed with his jeers and insults, she fled from him that night, sold all she possessed but the clothes on her back, and took passage for England."
"To see me?" asked Harriet, hoarsely.
"To see you, my lady, but all unknown. She had no wish to force herself upon you; she only felt that she was dying, and that if she could look on your face once before she went out of life, and see you well, and beautiful, and beloved, and happy, she could lie down in the dust at your gates and die content.
"She made me write you a line or two that night," continued Mr. Parmalee—"that night which she thought her last—and she begged me to find you and give it to you, with her picture. I have it yet; here they are, both."
He drew from his pocket the picture and a note, and gave them into my lady's hand.