in her turret-room at gabingly, ophelia sat before an open window with a letter lying in her lap. there was a look of apathy upon her face, an apathy so deep and utter that life seemed stagnant in her as though her heart stood still. her eyes stared over the woods and meadows towards the sea, eyes that beheld nothing, comprehended nothing. only her deep breathing betrayed the passions that still worked within.

it was maltravers’ letter that lay open in her lap, the letter of a coward and a hypocrite, full of euphemistic cunning and of subtle sentiment. for an hour or more ophelia had sat silent and motionless before the window, with the glib sentences ebbing and flowing through her brain. anger had failed her in that hour; shame and loneliness seemed closing about her soul.

“my dear phyl [began the epistle],—i write to you in great haste, for my news is of such a nature that the more speedily it is told the better.

“understand, in the first place, my dear girl, that what i am now doing is for your welfare, and goes grievously against the grain with me. we have ventured so much for each other in the past that this flouting at the eleventh hour comes like a thunderclap upon my soul.”

after some such preamble, maltravers proceeded to paint a vivid picture of their betrayal and of john strong’s relentless determination to unearth the truth. he described the interview at the manor, and recounted his own heroic stand and his desperate attempts to impress upon the master of saltire the hopelessness of his cause. the letter went on to state that, though his arguments had brought john strong to a temporary stand-still, he feared that the old man, “like a mad elephant, would soon break through the net.”

finally came the real inspiration of the letter. the further linking of their names would be injudicious in the extreme. maltravers would sacrifice himself. in fact, he had already left the neighborhood, having timed his flight so that the epistle should reach ophelia after he had gone. this was “to insure the inevitable ending of a relationship that could only bring misery and misrepresentation upon both.”

such in outline was the document with which this english gentleman relieved himself of a responsibility that he had so passionately assumed. there was much vapid and offensive sentiment, much pathetic posing crowded therein. yet the letter reeked of hypocrisy—hypocrisy of the basest sort, even because it was pitched in a spiritually tragic key. its scented sentiments stung far more deeply than the rough truth would have done, for there was an insult in the very cleverness of the thing, an insult exaggerated by the florid profession of feelings that the writer had never felt.

a woman is rarely deceived by a man whom she has loved, and ophelia had gleaned the truth little by little those many weeks, the truth that the man’s passion had cooled, and that her love was no more to him the magic wine of life. possibly she had fought against the conviction, even as a woman will fight against that which she knows in her heart of hearts to be true. the blow in itself was no sudden one to ophelia, but the method of its administration appealed to her as brutal in the extreme.

she pictured the whole drama to herself as she sat at the window, brooding and brooding over the letter in her lap. she could see maltravers confronted by john strong, the leopard and the bull, guile and gold. she could imagine the disloyal promptings of his heart, his selfish scheming, his desire to escape from a predicament that had lost its passionate charm. her woman’s instinct served her wonderfully in this. she could read the truth in every studied phrase of maltravers’ letter.

the nature of her position dawned upon her relentlessly as the evening sunlight streamed in upon her sensual face and haughty eyes. the shame of it! the shame of it! this it was that smote her vanity to the core. her overstrained imagination portrayed the future to her with a mordant realism that made her quail. she was only a woman, if a very imperfect one, and the motive towards audacity had vanished, leaving her unshielded and alone.

she reasoned thus as the day declined. john strong would speak, for he was not the man to remain long silent. the whole country-side would take up the cry. the women, those women who loved her little, would point at her mockingly and clamor, “clear yourself before us and the world, or be known as an adulteress and a liar.” they would shriek at her, these smug-mouthed women. and whence could come the refutation? society would throw the gauntlet down, and who should stoop to take the challenge up?

maltravers? ay, he was the man, and thence rose the bitterest mockery of all. his very cowardice would condemn her, for like a false god he would not hear her cry, and fanaticism would rend her for his silence. for him she had risked all; for her he would venture nothing. ignominy! ignominy! what was life worth to her that she should face such shame?

that night there was much hurrying to and fro in the galleries of the castle. bells rang. white-faced servants stood gaping in the passageways, whispering together, awed and frightened. a lamp flashed to and fro in the stable-yard, where two grooms were saddling and bridling a horse, ophelia’s horse, as good a beast as ever rode to hounds. soon there came the sparking of hoofs on the cobbles, a scattering of pebbles along the drive.

a woman’s voice cried from the porch.

“this note, quick, john, to the doctor.”

“saltire?”

“you know the house.”

“damn it, yes.”

“get on! get on!”

the man went away at a canter, a canter that steadied into a hard gallop as he passed the lodge and swung out into the high-road. he pulled his cap down over his eyes and gave the beast the whip. overhead a full moon was shining, splashing the silent trees with silver, glimmering upon the distant sea. there was the scent of new-mown hay upon the warm night air. in the castle porch servants stood huddled, listening to the sound of hoofs that died away along the road.

above in the turret bedroom blanche gusset, with her brown hair tumbled about her face, half lay upon the pillows, holding her sister in her arms. outside in the gallery a smart maid stood listening, running every now and again to the stairhead to peer down into the hall beneath. a shaded lamp burned in the room, whose angles were full of solemn shadows. ophelia, her face a dusky white, the pupils of her eyes dilated, lay in her sister’s arms breathing spasmodically with shallow span. she seemed half torpid, like one near death.

a table stood by the bed, bearing a glass and a flask of brandy, also a bottle of smelling-salts. blanche, half witless yet methodical for all her terror, was bathing her sister’s face with scent. a crumpled letter and an empty phial lay near on the scarlet coverlet of the bed.

“phyl,” she said, “phyl,” putting her mouth close to her sister’s ear.

there was some slight brightening of the dilated eyes. ophelia’s lips moved. her hands, flickering to and fro, entwined themselves in blanche’s hair.

“jim,” she said—“i hear jim’s voice—”

in some such fashion she maundered on. blanche, vigorous being that she was, shuddered as though a cold wind played upon her bosom. she reached for the glass, gulped down some brandy, coughed, and called to the girl without the door.

“florence! florence!”

the door opened a very little and a white face peered in.

“yes, miss.”

“how long—”

“how long, miss?”

“oh, you fool. how long has john been?”

“half an hour, miss.”

“oh, my god, only half an hour!”

“the doctor’ll be here soon, miss; ’tis only four miles to saltire.”

“go down and listen.”

“yes, miss.”

“shut the door. oh, my god!”

she turned again and hung over ophelia, staring into the bedewed and dusky face. all the beauty had fled therefrom, for it was as the face of death, gray and inanimate. the widely dilated eyes seemed to gaze into the unknown, as though fathoming many a solemn truth.

blanche trickled brandy between the parted lips, poured scent into the palm of her hand and dashed it in her sister’s face. she dragged her higher upon the pillows, the head with its golden mass of hair rolling upon her shoulder. the blue veins showed in the white neck, where all the muscles seemed tense as cords, striving and laboring for life and air.

then through the window came the distant sound of wheels upon the road. blanche gave a cry like a woman who hears the voice of a rescuer through the smoke of a burning house. the beat of hoofs came near apace. there was a hoarse grinding of the gravel before the house, hurried steps upon the stairs, the sound of a voice, quiet but confident, giving commands to the maid florence.

james marjoy entered, roughly dressed, as though he had but risen from bed. calm and self-reliant, he was a changed being in such an hour as this; and though but “mrs. marjoy’s husband” in his own home, he was the man when ministering to the sick. his assistant, a tall, morose-faced scotchman, followed at his heels. blanche, freeing herself, ran to james marjoy and seized his arm.

“thank god you have come,” she said.

“cocaine?”

“cocaine, yes; the bottle is yonder—and that scoundrel’s letter. i heard her ring and found her like this. my poor father is away.”

the scotchman was busy taking a hypodermic syringe from its case, his big, bony hands steady and unflurried, his solemn face devoid of all emotion. james marjoy had given one glance at the figure upon the bed. he took blanche gusset gently by the arm and thrust her towards the door.

“go, miss gusset,” he said.

“but—”

“time is precious. we shall do better alone.”

the night was wellnigh spent and the moon hung low in the west when james marjoy, haggard of face and weary about the eyes, came down to blanche gusset in the dining-room. a single candle burned upon the mantel-piece. blanche, white as the bed-gown under her dressing-jacket, ran to the doctor and held his arm. her eyes had that strange and terrible earnestness so tragic when seen in the eyes of a woman.

“well?”

“we were in time.”

“doctor—”

“your sister will recover.”

“thank god! thank god!”

she kissed james marjoy’s hand and flung herself upon a sofa, weeping unrestrainedly like a little child.