"Stop--do you hear me?--this instant stop!" the devil in him burst
out; he could restrain himself no longer.

"Woman! What are you made of?" he cried in a voice of thunder, and
she, shrinking back a little, fell half frightened into a chair. He
never could quite remember afterwards what he did say. He tried with
rough eloquence, that might have moved a heart of stone, to show her
what it was she was doing, to appeal to her better, nobler self, to
her love for him; he implored and entreated her to give up this new
life--for his sake.

He had nothing better to urge than that, poor fool! It weighed with
her as just so much chaff. The time had gone by when his words would
have touched her; they glided lightly over what she called her
"heart" now and left no impression there.

And then he went on his knees beside her and prayed her to grant him
this one boon; he poured out a flood of feverish words, hardly
pausing to think; he tried to paint an alluring picture of their life
in the future: they would leave Camberwell, he said; she should go
where she liked if she would but listen to reason; it would ruin him
in his profession, he pleaded, if she persisted in returning to the
stage. As he talked the pretty face grew harder and older. Bella had
made up her mind, and the man beside her had not the faintest power
to sway her by his reproaches or entreaties.

And then he stumbled to his feet and stood waiting for his answer.

It came at last, clear and cold, falling like pellets of ice upon his
impatient fervour.

"The thing is done now, and all the talking in the world will not
alter it."

"And that is your last word to me--your husband?"

Finding she did not speak, he walked across the floor, turning at the
door, hoping against hope, but she lay back as still as if she were
dead.

When he had gone, Bella opened her eyes and held up her hand
curiously. It was wet with--what?--tears.

Her eyes were bright and dry.

For a moment something of the old feeling swept over her.

Poor Jack! She half rose, then sank back again.

It was too late, she was thinking; as if it were ever too late to
make amends, to atone, while we have still breath and life!

"It is all for the best, anyhow," she murmured after awhile, and when
philosophy is well to the fore, love hides its diminished head.

CHAPTER IV.

Six months wore themselves away; six months in every day of which
John Chetwynd lived a year, measured by the