"In truth, he did! How was it?" She had turned white as a sheet.
"'Twas Falconer killed him in a duel," said I, with indignation, "the very night after you sailed!"
"What, Fal—! A duel! My God, on my account, then! Oh, I never knew that! Oh, Tom—little Tom—the dear little fellow—'twas I killed him!" She flung her head forward upon the table, and sobbed wildly, so that I repented of my outspoken anger at Falconer's deception of her. For some minutes her grief was pitiful to see. If ever there was the anguish of remorse, it was then. I sat sobered, leaving it to Phil to apply comfort, which, when her outburst of tears had spent its violence, he undertook to do.
"Well, well, Madge," said he, softly, "'tis done and past now, and not for us to recall. 'Twas an honourable death, such as he would never have shrunk from; and he has long been past all sorrow. The most of his life, while it lasted, was happy; and you could never have foreseen. He will not be unavenged, take my word of that!"
But it was a long time ere Phil could restore her to composure. When he had done so, he asked her what had become of Ned. Thereupon she told us all that I have recorded in a former chapter, of their first days in London, and the events leading to her acceptance of Mr. Sheridan's offer. After she had been acting for some time, under the name of Miss Warren, Ned chanced to come to the play, and recognised her. He thereupon dogged her, in miserable plight, claiming some return of the favours which he vowed he had lavished upon her. She put him upon a small pension, but declared that if he molested her with further demands she would send him to jail for robbing her. She had not seen him since; he had called regularly upon her man of business for his allowance, until lately, when he had ceased to appear.
Of what had occurred before she turned actress, she told us all, I say; for the news of Tom's real fate had put her into a state for withholding nothing. Never was confession more complete; uttered as it was in a stricken voice, broken as it was by convulsive sobs, marked as it was by falling tears, hesitations for phrases less likely to pain Philip, remorseful lowerings of her eyes. She reverted, finally, to her acquaintance with Falconer in New York, and finished with the words:
"But I protest I have never been guilty of the worst—the one thing—I swear it, Philip; before God, I do!"
If any load was taken from Phil's mind by this, he refrained from showing it.
"I came in search of you," said he, in a low voice, "to see what I could do toward your happiness. I knew that in your situation, a wife separated from her husband, dependent on heaven knew what for a maintenance, you must have many anxious, distressful hours. If I had known where to find you, I should have sent you money regularly from the first, and eased your mind with a definite understanding. And now I wish to do this—nay, I will do it, for it is my right. Whatever may have happened, you are still the Madge Faringfield I—I loved from the first; nothing can make you another woman to me: and though you chose to be no longer my wife, 'tis impossible that while I live I can cease to be your husband."
The corners of her lips twitched, but she recovered herself with a disconsolate sigh. "Chose to be no longer your wife," she repeated. "Yes, it appeared so. I wanted to shine in the world. I have shone—on the stage, I mean; but that's far from the way I had looked to. A woman in my situation—a wife separated from her husband—can never shine as I had hoped to, I fancy. But I've been admired in a way—and it hasn't made me happy. Admiration can't make a woman happy if she has a deeper heart than her desire of admiration will fill. If I could have forgot, well and good; but I couldn't forget, and can't forget. And one must have love, and devotion; but after having known yours, Philip, whose else could I find sufficient?"