"And that accounts for what I heard the other day, that she was seen riding home with that Madame Layton, who keeps a house of assignation in —— street."
"How did she know that she kept such a house!"
It was Matilda Morgan, that said it. She had been there.
The train once lighted, which fires the dry prairie, how it sweeps on before the wind. It little regards who stand in the way. As little regards the slanderer, and as rapidly spreads the fire of a scandalous tongue, devouring its victims with a consuming fire.
Athalia was a victim. The man who should have been her shield, had himself thrown the first dart. It had been more envenomed by a pretended female friend, who had told her all that he said. She could have forgiven him everything else, she would not forgive him that. Things now looked dark. She was obliged to look for work among a class of customers where nothing but the direst necessity would have led her. Her husband had tended bar, until his employer found that he drank up all the profits. Now he was drinking up the hard earnings of his wife. Then he began to stay out nights. Where, she could only guess. One day she sent him to pay the rent. It was the last money she had. About a week after, the landlord called for it. He had not seen Walter, had not been paid, and was very sorry for her, but he must have the rent.
"Would he wait a few days? she hoped her husband would pay it."
There was a curl of derision upon his lip. What could it mean?
"Fact is, Mrs. Morgan, or Miss Lovetree, or whatever your name is, I let the premises to you, and look to you for the rent. I shall not run after such a miserable drunken —— as Walter Morgan."
She did not drop dead under this heavy blow; she simply said, "you shall have your rent to-morrow."
"Very well then; and you may as well look for a new place too, in the course of the week."