could be more
independent, though the prospects were poor. Here I might have been
happy, had it not been for the continued alienation between my wife
and me. She had been ambitions. She had relied on my future. She was
now angry because I had thrown that future away. It was a death-blow
to her hopes, and she could not forgive me. We lived in the same
house, but I knew nothing of her occupations and amusements. She went
much into society, where she was greatly admired, and seemed to be
neglectful of her home and of her child. I bore my misery as best I
could in silence, and never so much as dreamed of the tremendous
catastrophe in which it was about to terminate."

Lord Chetwynde paused, and seemed overcome by his recollections.

"You have heard of it, I suppose?" he asked at length, in a scarce
audible voice.

The General looked at him, and for a moment their eyes met; then he
looked away. Then he shaded his eyes with his hand and sat as though
awaiting further revelations.

Lord Chetwynde did not seem to notice him at all. Intent upon his own
thoughts, he went on in that strange soliloquizing tone with which he
had begun.

"She fled--" he said, in a voice which was little more than a
whisper.

"Heavens!" said General Pomeroy.

There was a long silence.

"It was about three years after our marriage," continued Lord
Chetwynde, with an effort. "She fled. She left no word of farewell.
She fled. She forsook me. She forsook her child. My God! Why?"

He was silent again.

"Who was the man?" asked the General, in a strange voice, and with an
effort.

"He was known as Redfield Lyttoun. He had been devoted for a long
time to my wretched wife. Their flight was so secret and so
skillfully managed that I could gain no clew whatever to it--and,
indeed, it was better so--perhaps--yes--better so." Lord Chetwynde
drew a long breath. "Yes, better so," he continued--"for if I had
been able to track the scoundrel and take his life, my vengeance
would have been gained, but my dishonor would have been proclaimed.
To me that dishonor would have brought no additional pang. I had
suffered all that I could. More were impossible; but as it was my
shame was not made public--and so, above all--above all--my boy was
saved. The frightful scandal did not arise to crush my darling boy."

The agitation of Lord Chetwynde overpowered him. His face grew more
pallid, his eyes were fixed, and his clenched hands testified to the
struggle th