WHEN Lord Avondale had gone, Captain Osborn turned mechanically toward his wife. She stood before him, defiant and beautiful, like a tigress at bay, without defense or chance of escape. “Lucy,” said he, in resolute and yet sorrowful tones, “my very soul revolts at you. A pretty-faced woman whose purity is questioned is like a rose broken from its stem. We cannot use the one as a decoration and dare not trust the other as a companion.”

She started to speak, but he motioned her to silence.

“Explanations,” he continued, “are unavailing. Should you attempt to explain, you would but stultify the wife that I once knew and loved, and sink yourself still deeper into the quagmires of shame and dishonor. I have not been ignorant of the fact that the wagging tongues of scandal have for months proclaimed the liaison of which you are guilty. Yes, I have been silent while brooding over your shame, and yet, Lucy, I have suffered the tortures of hell. For the sake of my son, I had hoped that you would leave the Southwest forever; and I had arranged that a letter should follow you to England, requesting you never to return to further disgrace my name. In that letter I had expected to express all that I am now saying. Your marriage vows at the holy altar have been made a football of convenience to shield your wickedness under the protection of my good name. You have brought disgrace not only upon your family, but even upon the very name of wifehood and womanhood.”

The face of Lucy Osborn was indeed a study. Her haughtiness melted away before the ringing words of the old captain. She tried in vain to regain her self-control.

“Lyman, Lyman,” she finally sobbed, clasping her jeweled hands together, “this chastisement is worse than death.” She sank to the floor in humiliation. “Oh, that I were dead,” she moaned. “Lyman, Lyman, what will become of me?”

The captain was visibly affected. A stifled sob seemed, for a moment, almost to shake his resolution.

“Lucy,” said he, “you are true to your selfish instincts even in your utter wretchedness. Self-love prompts you to inquire as to your fate rather than to consider the effect that your tarnished name will have on our little son,—to say nothing of myself. I have a question to ask. Was that letter to Doctor Redfield sent at Mrs. Horton’s request or with her knowledge?”

“No, no, she was quite ignorant of my having sent it.” Mrs. Osborn arose from the floor, where she had thrown herself in anguish. Approaching her escritoire, she unlocked a small drawer, and, in a hopeless endeavor to mend the luster of a dimmed diamond, she handed the captain four letters,—one addressed to Doctor Redfield and three addressed to Ethel Horton. The captain put them in his pocket.

“You ask,” said he, “in regard to your future. I have considered this question carefully since receiving that misdirected letter this afternoon. It is wonderful what painstaking consideration we can give some questions on a very few hours’ notice. Written evidence of the black passionflower of your choice is now in my possession. I have but one course to suggest. Your friend, the adventurer, is such a contemptible coward that I doubt not he is already on nis way to Dodge City. You can easily overtake him in New York, by leaving Meade to-morrow. You have your own private fortune, well invested in government bonds. This fortune is quite ample—it is even princely. I will forward your securities to you immediately. To-morrow morning I shall hand you ten thousand dollars, which will be quite sufficient to provide you and also your friend, the adventurer, with the necessities if not indeed the luxuries of life until you receive your quarterly interest. Lucy, I have but one request; in memory of other, sweeter and holier days, give me your promise that after to-morrow we shall never meet again. Your love for Harry, even though you have none for me, now that the blighting sense of shame has swept over your weak and foolish heart, should prompt you to see the wisdom of this.”

There was a cold, rasping ring in his voice, denoting unfaltering determination. The interview had evidently cost him great effort and much pain.

“Never, never!” she cried, with hysterical bitterness. “Oh, I loathe the very thought of that man; his name, even, has become a terrible nightmare to me. How could I have been so blind and wicked as to forget your strength and nobility! Lyman, oh, Lyman, my husband, is there no possible way to regain your pity, if not your love? Must I forever be separated from our little Harry? Yes, I shall go away from this home, if you insist, and shall never return, but for God’s sake, Lyman, believe me, here on my bended knees before you and before God, when I say that I shall never again willingly look upon the face of Lenox Avondale. Should I meet him by chance, I would not even speak to him. Believe this of me, and all else shall be as you wish.”

The captain looked into her tear-stained free, and he saw truth written thereon.

“Lucy, do not kneel to me: kneel to your God.”

“God will forgive me,” she sobbed, turning her eyes toward heaven, “but, Lyman, you will not.”

She arose and came close to him, and gazed sorrowfully up into his face.

“You do not understand me,” said the captain. “My pity you already have, although it is worth but little. Pity comes from the heart, and my heart has been made poor with long and bitter suffering.”

“But, Lyman, have you no forgiveness for the penitent? Must I go out into the world alone, believing that you will never forgive my sins? I do not ask you to compromise yourself by forgetting them; but, oh, will you not tell me that you forgive them?”

Captain Osborn sighed, as if a scalding tear had fallen down into his withered heart. His eyes rested for a moment upon her, and then he walked thoughtfully back and forth. His just resentment struggled with his innate tenderness of soul. He returned to where she was standing and said, in a low, husky voice, “Lucy, you have sinned against yourself, against me, against our baby boy, and against God; but if your contrition can gain the forgiveness of the Infinite, it certainly should gain the forgiveness of a poor, finite being like myself.” He turned away, and for a moment seemed to be struggling for mastery over himself. “Lucy,” said he, “our paths from this night must lead in opposite directions; but as I, myself, hope to be forgiven in the world to come, where mortal souls are weighed in the unerring scales of justice, so I, in my poor, weak heart forgive you.”

She sobbed aloud in fervent thanksgiving for her escape. “Oh, Lyman, Lyman, my tears are now of joy, rather than of sorrow! I feel regenerated and purified. Your mercy means more than you know.” Her countenance grew strangely fair. A halo of light seemed to envelop her. A tear trembled on the cheek of the old veteran as he said, “Good night.”

At an early hour of the following morning the muffled stroke of church bells sounded thirty-six times.

Lucy Osborn was dead. A council of physicians said that death had come to her through heart failure, caused by some great mental strain.

The clods that fell upon ner coffin sounded a plaintive requiem over the remains of an erring woman. However, they stilled the tongue of gossip. The captain may have been weak in his great forgiveness, but his was a weakness tempered with much mercy.