d you could never have
foreseen. He will not be unavenged, take my word of that!"

But it was a long time ere Phil could restore her to composure. When
he had done so, he asked her what had become of Ned. Thereupon she
told us all that I have recorded in a former chapter, of their first
days in London, and the events leading to her acceptance of Mr.
Sheridan's offer. After she had been acting for some time, under the
name of Miss Warren, Ned chanced to come to the play, and recognised
her. He thereupon dogged her, in miserable plight, claiming some
return of the favours which he vowed he had lavished upon her. She put
him upon a small pension, but declared that if he molested her with
further demands she would send him to jail for robbing her. She had
not seen him since; he had called regularly upon her man of business
for his allowance, until lately, when he had ceased to appear.

Of what had occurred before she turned actress, she told us all, I
say; for the news of Tom's real fate had put her into a state for
withholding nothing. Never was confession more complete; uttered as it
was in a stricken voice, broken as it was by convulsive sobs, marked
as it was by falling tears, hesitations for phrases less likely to
pain Philip, remorseful lowerings of her eyes. She reverted, finally,
to her acquaintance with Falconer in New York, and finished with the
words:

"But I protest I have never been guilty of the worst--the one thing--I
swear it, Philip; before God, I do!"

If any load was taken from Phil's mind by this, he refrained from
showing it.

"I came in search of you," said he, in a low voice, "to see what I
could do toward your happiness. I knew that in your situation, a wife
separated from her husband, dependent on heaven knew what for a
maintenance, you must have many anxious, distressful hours. If I had
known where to find you, I should have sent you money regularly from
the first, and eased your mind with a definite understanding. And now
I wish to do this--nay, I _will_ do it, for it is my right. Whatever
may have happened, you are still the Madge Faringfield I--I loved from
the first; nothing can make you another woman to me: and though you
chose to be no longer my wife, 'tis impossible that while I live I can
cease to be your husband."

The corners of her lips twitched, but she recovered herself with a
disconsolate sigh. "Chose to be no longer your wife," she repeated.
"Yes, it appeared so. I wanted to