lly,
not without renewed outbursts of tears, not without traversing many
layers of prepared conventional feelings, in which a few thin streaks of
genuine emotion wore embedded, she told her story--the story of a young,
high-minded, and neglected wife, and of a husband callous, indifferent,
a scorner of religion, unsoftened even by the advent of the
children--"such sweet children, such little darlings"--and the gradual
estrangement. Then came the persistent siege to the lonely heart of one
not pretty, perhaps, but fatally attractive to men; the lonely heart's
unparalleled influence for good over the besieger.

"He would do anything," said Lady Newhaven, looking earnestly at Rachel.
"My influence over him is simply boundless. If I said, as I sometimes
did at balls, how sorry I was to see some plain girl standing out, he
would go and dance with her. I have seen him do it."

"I suppose he did it to please you."

"That was just it, simply to please me."

Rachel was not so astonished as Lady Newhaven expected. She certainly
was rather wooden, the latter reflected. The story went on. It became
difficult to tell, and, according to the teller, more and more liable to
misconstruction. Rachel's heart ached as bit by bit the inevitable
development was finally reached in floods of tears.

"And you remember that night you were at an evening party here," sobbed
Lady Newhaven, casting away all her mental notes and speaking extempore.
"It is just a fortnight ago, and I have not slept since, and _he_ was
here, looking so miserable"--(Rachel started slightly)--"he sometimes
did, if he thought I was hard upon him. And afterwards, when every one
had gone, Edward took him to his study and told him he had found us out,
and they drew lots which should kill himself within five months--and I
listened at the door."

Lady Newhaven's voice rose half strangled, hardly human, in a shrill
grotesque whimper above the sobs which were shaking her. There was no
affectation about her now.

Rachel's heart went out to her the moment she was natural. She knelt
down and put her strong arms round her. The poor thing clung to her,
and, leaning her elaborate head against her, wept tears of real anguish
upon her breast.

"And which drew the short lighter?" said Rachel at last.

"I don't know," almost shrieked Lady Newhaven. "It is that which is
killing me. Sometimes I think it is Edward, and sometimes I think it is
Hugh."

At the name of Hugh, Rachel