"Is--," she falters, "is there any news of _him_?"

"No news--only the old story. Nellie! Nellie! I begin to think I have done grievously wrong."

"How, Norine?"

"By bringing you here that night. I have been sinned against, but I have also been sinning. I had taken the fortune he prized so highly; I should have been content with that. But I was not. When I returned there was no thought of him in my mind, except the hope that we might never meet. We did meet, and when I saw his growing admiration for myself, I--Nellie, forgive me if you can--I _did_ encourage it. I wonder at my own wickedness now; I am sorry, sorry, sorry. I know I should never have brought you here that night. Badly as he treated you, you were happier with him than you are now. And I parted you. Nellie, forgive me!"

Something that was almost color flushed into the pale face--something that was almost light into the blue eyes. The soft lips set themselves firmly.

"There is nothing to forgive. I thank you for having brought me here that night. Sooner or later I would have known all. And I was not his wife he said--you were--not I. 'In any case, I will have a divorce.'

Have you forgotten those words? 'I never cared for her--I loathe her now--I married her for her dower.' Have you forgotten _that_? He deserved all. I don't blame you. We are only human, and I say again I am glad I know. I suffer, but no blame attaches to you for that suffering.

He was treading the down-hill road before you came; he is only finishing the journey as it would have been finished in any case. I hate myself for my own misery. I hate myself that I cannot tear every thought of him out of my heart. But I think of the past, and I cannot."

She broke down suddenly, violently, passionately almost, for the first time, into wild, hysterical weeping. Norine took her in her arms, her own tears falling, and let her sob her sorrow out. The paroxysm was brief as it was stormy. She drew herself away suddenly, and buried her face, among the pillows.

"Don't mind me, please," she said; "don't talk to me. I am ashamed of my own weakness, but--"

Norine kissed her very tenderly.

"I am glad to see you cry, Nellie--anything is better than this dry, stony grief. I will take the babies down to supper, and send you up yours. And Nellie, dear, you must eat it; remember we start on a journey to-morrow."

The journey was to Kent Hill, where they were to stay over Christmas and New Year. Norine had made one flying visit already--had been clasped in Aunt Hetty's arms, had kissed Uncle Reuben's sunburnt cheek, had heard Uncle Joe's husky "Right glad to see you back, Norry," and--that was all. She took the old place, and, after one twilight talk, the past was never referred to. Truthfully and simply she told them all, not even excepting the darkest part--her own revenge bitterly repented of when too late. Now she and Helen and the children were going down for a long visit. One other guest there was to be--one who had spent every Christmas at Kent Hill during the past four years--Mr. Gilbert.

"Christmas wouldn't seem like Christmas now without him," Aunt Hetty said. "I don't believe there's his equal in wide America. A gentleman from top to toe, if there ever was one yet."

The children Aunt Hetty took to her motherly heart at once--Helen's pale lips she kissed, and Helen was at home in five minutes, as though she had known them for years. It was such a blessed, restful place--the tired heart drew a great sigh of relief, and felt half its weary load lifted off. For Norine--she was almost the Norine of old, flying up and down breezy stairways, in and out breezy rooms, the old songs rippling from her lips, until the thought of the pale, widowed wife down-stairs made her check them. Then came winter--the first fall of snow--the first gay sleighing. Little Laurie was wild with delight--even Helen's pale lips learned to smile. Kent Hill was working a transformation.

Christmas drew near, and among Norine's pleasant duties came that of decorating Mr. Gilbert's room, the old guest chamber, where he had spent so many happy, hopeful nights in the time when he had loved her. He despised her now. Ah, what a wretch she had been! He would despise her always. Well, she deserved it all; it didn't matter; but--and then a heavy sigh finished the thought. She was learning the value of what she had lost when too late.

Christmas arrived--Mr. Gilbert arrived. And Helen's wistful eyes looked into his face, and asked the question her lips were too proud to shape.

"There is no news," he said softly, as he bent over her chair; "only the old news. He is well--that is the best I can tell of him."

No more was said. Norine, proud and humble together, rather avoided him.

Still they were of necessity a great deal together, indoors and out, and, in the genial glow and cheerfulness of the Christmas-time, the reserve of both melted. It began to be like old times--the bright color, the gay laugh, the light step, the sparkling eyes, the sweet singing, made Norine the very Norine of four years ago. And Mr. Gilbert--but Mr.

Gilbert was ever quiet and undemonstrative; his calm, grave face told little, except that he was quietly happy; that you could see.

Christmas passed, New Year passed, Mr. Gilbert went back to New York.

And suddenly a blank fell upon Kent Hill, sleighing and skating lost their zest--the weather grew colder, the dull country duller, and Mrs.

Darcy, at the close of January, abruptly announced her intention of returning to New York also.

"If you are willing to come, Nellie," she said; "of course if you would rather remain--"

"I would rather go," Helen answered. "I have been happier here than I ever thought to be again, but I would rather go."

That settled it. They went. And on the second of February Mrs. Darcy donned velvet and sables, and set off for Mr. Gilbert's office. Was it altogether for Helen's sake--altogether for news of Helen's husband?

Well, Mrs. Darcy did not ask herself the question, so no one else perhaps has any right to do so.

Looking very fresh, very stately, very handsome, she came like a bright vision into the lawyer's dingy office. A little desultory talk then--playing with her muff tassels, she asked the old question:

"Was there any news of him?"

"Yes," Mr. Gilbert answered this time; "there is news. He has been very ill; he has been in a hospital; some blow on the head received in a drunken brawl. I hunted him up the day he was discharged. A most pitiable object I found him--penniless, friendless, and still half dazed from the effects of the blow. I took him to a respectable boarding-house, paid a month's board in advance, and obtained the landlady's promise to look after him a little more than usual. He is there still, but gone back to the old life. I fear all hope for him is at an end."

Norine's face had fallen in her hands.

"May Heaven forgive me my share in his ruin! Oh, Mr. Gilbert! it may not be yet too late. Who knows? I will go to him--I will beg his forgiveness--he shall return to his wife and children. Give me his address"--she started impetuously to her feet, her face aglow--"I will go at once."

He gave it to her without a word, written on a slip of paper. As she took it, she paused and looked at him with clasped hands.

"Mr. Gilbert," she faltered, "if--if I do this will _you_ forgive me?"

He laid his hand on her shoulder, almost as a father might, more moved than he cared to show.

"I forgive you now," he answered.

She left the house, entered her carriage, and bade the coachman drive to the address. Then with a glow of new hope, new happiness at her heart, she fell back. Yes, she would atone for her sin--she would labor with all her strength to reform Laurence Thorndyke, to win forgiveness from Heaven and her friends. Fifteen minutes brought her to the street.

Before one house a crowd had collected, a suppressed murmur of infinite excitement running through the throng.

"It is the very house we are looking for, ma'am" said the coachman, opening the door.

She could not tell why, but some swift feeling of evil made her get out and join the crowd.

"What is it?" she breathlessly inquired.

"Man jumped from a three-story window and killed himself," was the answer.

She pressed forward, her hand on her heart--very pale.

"Why did he do it?" she asked.

"Del. trem., ma'am."

"Jim jams, misses."

"Delirium tremens, madam," interposed a gentlemanly man, touching his hat. "He jumped from that upper window, stark crazy, not five minutes ago. Very sad case--very sad case, indeed. A gentleman once. I knew him well. His name is Laurence Thorndyke."

CHAPTER XXII.

"THE WAY OF THE TRANSGRESSOR IS HARD."

She stood for a moment faint, sick, stunned, unable to speak or move; then she pressed forward, still without a word, through the throng. All made way for the beautiful, richly-robed lady with the death-white face and dilated eyes.

"Wife," one whispered, falling away.