The message which had been sent by Lettice to Alan, by the mouth of Mrs. Bundlecombe, had not lost much in its transit.

"Tell him," she had said, "that I have heard what he has suffered. Tell him not to trouble for me because I am forewarned, and am not afraid of anything she can do. And tell him that he should not think of punishing her, for the punishment she has brought on herself is enough."

It had consoled him greatly to have this assurance of her sympathy. He did not presume too far on the mere fact of her having sent him a message, and the words themselves did not amount to very much. But if she had cared nothing at all, she would have said nothing at all; and perhaps the description which his aunt gave him of Lettice's kindness to her, and of her interest in the story which she had heard, did more to appease his heart than anything else.

It was his full intention to do all that was possible to deliver himself from the bondage of his unhappy marriage, and in the meantime he would take every precaution to prevent Lettice from being annoyed by this termagant of a woman. But he rejoiced to think that Lettice herself was in some manner prepared for what might happen to her, and was on her guard against the danger.

There was a certain sweetness in the thought that they shared this danger between them, that his enemy was hers also, and that she had voluntarily ranged herself by his side. A feeling of satisfaction flashed through his mind at this community of interests with the woman whom he loved, but it was merged at once in the conviction that he could not be content for one single moment to leave her exposed to the possibility of insult from Cora.

She had commanded him not to punish his wife. It was very difficult for him to obey. This bitterness against the degraded wretch was roused to its highest pitch by her last outbreak. If she would only die out of his life—die in any sense, so that he might hear and see her no more—he would not ask for her punishment. If she would cease to be his wife, and enable him to stand beside the pure and steadfast woman whose gentle influence had transformed his soul, he would forgive her. There was no way in which this could be done except by exposing her before the world, and depriving her of all right to look to him for support, and in the doing of this he knew full well there would be no room for weak pity and misgiving.

He could not forgive her if that was to mean that he should keep her as his wife, and go on trying to buy her silence. He did not want to inflict pain upon her out of mere resentment, and if he could have his way in the matter of the divorce he was quite willing that she should have some of his money. He would be so rich without her that he would gladly go out into the street then and there, stripped of everything that he possessed, if in that way he could shake off the galling fetters that weighed upon him.

To-morrow he would tell his lawyer that she was to have her weekly money again, on condition of her solemnly renewing her engagement not to molest him in any way, and not to interfere with any of his friends. She would probably regard the offer as a sign of weakness, but at any rate it would put her on her good behavior for a time. He would do this for Lettice's sake, if not for his own.

He knew with whom he had to deal, and of what this raving woman was capable. If she had been English, or German, and had gone utterly to the bad, she might by this time have been lethargically besotted, and would have given him very little trouble so long as she received her two pounds a week. But Cora was Latin, and belonged to the same race as the poet who drew the harpies, and the Gorgons, and mad Dido, and frenzied Camilla, who had painted in a hundred forms the unrestrained fury of his countrywomen, when the grace and tenderness of their sex had deserted them. She also was besotted at times, but whenever she was not besotted her mind was full of vivacity, and her anger was as a whirlwind, and neither fear nor prudence could hold her in check. Alan knew her only too well, even before she had tried to kill him in France, and he had no doubt that the outbreak of the last few days was only the beginning of a persecution which she would maintain so long as she had the power to injure him.

For himself he had already resolved what to do. Even his aunt must not be subject to these annoyances, and he bade her pack up her things and go to an old friend of hers in the country. He would leave his present lodging and get housed somewhere out of her reach. Why should he remain at her mercy, when it did not matter to any one where he lived, and when certainly no householder would endure a lodger who was liable to be visited by a madwoman?

But Lettice? How could she be defended from attack? It was clear that Cora was jealous of her, or at all events maliciously set against her. It had required very little to produce that effect. Heaven knew that Lettice had done nothing to excite jealousy even in the mind of a blameless wife, entitled to the most punctilious respect and consideration of her husband. If only Lettice could be placed in safety, carried away from London to some happy haven where no enemy could follow and torment her, and where he might guard her goings and comings, he would be content to play the part of a watch-dog, if by that means he could be near her and serve her!

Something impelled him to get up and leave the house. It was dark by this time, and he wandered aimlessly through the streets; but by and by, without any conscious intention, he found himself walking rapidly in the direction of Hammersmith.

Eight o'clock had struck when he left his lodgings in Alfred Place, and it was after nine when he stood at the corner where the main-road passes by the entrance to Brook Green. He had never once looked behind him; and, even if he had, he would scarcely have detected in the darkness the figure which dogged his steps with obstinate persistence.

He hesitated for a minute or more at the corner, and then walked slowly round the Green. Opposite to Maple Cottage there was a large tree, and underneath it, barely visible from the pavement, a low wooden seat. Here he sat down, and watched the dimly-lighted windows.

Why had he come there? What was in his mind when he turned his face to Lettice's cottage, and sat patiently looking out of the darkness? He could not have answered the questions if they had been put to him. But he felt a sense of comfort in knowing that she was so near, and pleased himself with the thought that even for these few minutes he was guarding her from unseen dangers.

He may have been sitting there for half-an-hour—a hundred images chasing each other through his disordered brain—when suddenly a blind in the cottage was drawn up. For a moment he saw the form of Lettice as she stood at the window, with a lamp in her hand, framed like a picture by the ivy which covered the wall. Then the shutters closed, and he was left alone in the darkness. Alone, as he thought: but he was not alone. He had started to his feet when her face appeared at the window, and stood with his arms extended, as though he would reach through space to touch her. Then, as she disappeared, he softly murmured her name.

"Lettice! My Lettice!"

A harsh laugh grated on his ears. It came from the other side of the tree, and Alan sprang in the direction of the sound. He need not have hastened, for his wife had no desire to conceal her presence. She was coming forward to meet him; and there, in the middle of the Green, shrouded in almost complete darkness, the two stood face to face.

"Tiens, mon ami; te voilÀ!"

She was in her mocking mood—certain to be quiet for a few minutes, as Alan told himself the moment he recognized her. What was she doing here? He had thought that she did not know where Lettice lived; how had she discovered the place? It did not occur to him that his own folly had betrayed the secret; on the contrary, he blessed the instinct which had brought him to the spot just when he was wanted. "A spirit in my feet hath led me to thy chamber window, sweet!" All this passed through his mind in a couple of seconds.

"Yes, I am here. And you! How came you here?"

"Nothing more simple. I came on my feet. But you walked quick, my dear; I could hardly keep up with you at times."

"You followed me!"

"Yes, I followed you—all the way from Alfred Place. I wanted so much to know where she lived, and I said, 'He shall show me. He, who would not for worlds that I should know—he will be my sign-post.' Pouf! you men are stupid creatures. I must be cunning with you, my good husband who would leave me to starve—who would divorce me, and marry this woman, and cut the hated Cora out of your life. But no, my poor child, it shall not be. So long as we live, we two, Cora will never desert you. It is my only consolation, that I shall be able to follow every step of your existence as I followed you to-night, without your knowing where I am, or at what moment I may stand before you."

"Let us walk," said Alan, "and talk things over. Why stand here?"

"You are afraid that I shall make another scandal, and rouse the virtuous Lettice from her pillow, with the sound of her name screamed out in the night? Ha, ha! How the poor coward trembles! Have no fear! Twice in a week your brutal police have seized me, and I do not love their kind attentions. Now and then I may defy them, when I need an excitement of that kind; but not to-night. To-night I mean to be clever, and show you how I can twist a cold-blooded Englishman round my finger. If you go, then I will scream—it is a woman's bludgeon, my child, as her tongue is her dagger. Bah! be quiet and listen to me. You shall not divorce me, for if you try I will accuse you of all sorts of things—basenesses that will blast your name for ever."

"I am not afraid of you," said Alan. "For anything I know, you have a pistol under your cloak—shoot me. I took you to love and cherish, and you have made my life a hell. What good is it? Shoot!"

"No; that makes a noise. In Paris I would shoot you, for it is you who have destroyed my life. But in London you do not understand these things, so that I must act differently. Listen! If you try to divorce me, and do not pay me my money, I have one or two little pistol-shots À l'anglaise which will suit you perfectly. Shall I tell you what I would say, to anyone who would listen to me—in court, in the street, anywhere?"

"As you please."

"First, that you fired at me at Culoz, and that I can bring forward witnesses of the attempted assassination."

"That is pure nonsense; I am not to be frightened by such child's play."

"Second, so far as the divorce is concerned, that whatever my offence may have been, you have condoned it. Do you not understand, my friend? Did I not find shelter in your rooms in Montagu Place? I would have a good lawyer, who would know how to make the most of that."

"Have you nothing stronger to rely on?"

"Listen; you shall tell me. My third pistol-shot is this—that you were wont to make private assignations with Miss Lettice Campion, and that you had been seen dropping from her window, here in Brook Green, at midnight. What do you think of that, for example?"

"Vile wretch!" said Alan. "Your malice has robbed you of your senses. Who would believe you?"

"Do not be a child. Are you English, and do you ask who would believe a woman telling these tales of a man? Do you not know that men are ruined every day in England by the lies of women? The better the man, the more abandoned the woman, the more incredible her lies, so much the more certain is his condemnation. Bah, you know it! I should not hesitate about the lies, and, if I made them sufficiently repulsive, your noble countrymen would not hesitate to believe them. Do you doubt it? What think you of my plan?"

He made no answer; he was trying to command himself.

"Now, tell me! Shall I have my money as usual?"

"Before I left the house," he said, "I had resolved that the money ought to be paid to you. So long as you are my wife, you ought not to starve."

"Good! It is an annuity for life!"

"No. I would give a hand or an eye to be free from you."

"They would be useless to me, my dear. Would you give the fair fame of Lettice? It will cost no less."

"Let that pass!"

"Yes, we will let that pass. Then, I receive my money as usual?"

"Go to Mr. Larmer to-morrow; he will pay it."

"I hate this Mr. Larmer—he is an animal without manners. But no matter. I am glad you are reasonable, my friend. You buy a respite for a few weeks. I shall forget you with all my heart—until I have a migraine, and suddenly remember you again. But it is too cheap; I cannot live decently on this paltry sum. Good-bye, my child—and gare aux-migraines!"

She was gone, and Alan was left alone. He had dug his nails into the palms of his hands, in the effort to restrain himself, until the blood came; and long after the mocking fiend had departed he sat silent on the bench, half-stupefied with rage and despair.

Was he really the coward that he felt himself, to listen to her shameless threats, and tremble at the thought of her machinations? Lettice had told him that she was not afraid; but ought he not to be afraid for her, and do all that was possible to avert a danger from her which he would not fear on his own account?

Ah, if he could only take counsel with her, how wise and brave she would be; how he would be encouraged by her advice and strengthened by her sympathy! But he knew that it was impossible to call to his aid the woman whom it was his first duty to protect from annoyance. She should never know the torture he was enduring until it had came to an end, and he could tell it with his own lips as an indifferent story of the past.