dition, of the narrowing circle of her doom; and in horror, and the cowardice of horror, I had fled away.
There was a letter waiting for me at the Temple. It was from my father, and it was full of heart breaking good spirits. “Since I wrote last I have been thinking that, as I have only one son in the world, and am soon to lose him in that old cruel battle of father's love against woman's love, the least I can do is to show my front to the enemy and die with a brave face. So please take warning that having asked and obtained six months' leave of absence, I intend to present myself at your wedding in the spring, when if my foe is only good and sweet to me, I may perhaps capitulate without very much of a struggle. My affectionate remembrances to her in the mean time, and this message for my Christmas greeting—that my boy's letters have made an old man more than half in love with her already.”
The same night I found my way to Cheyne Walk. I told the whole shocking story to Sir George. Under the quiet manner of a man familiar with shocking stories, and self trained to betray no surprise, I saw his strange and painful emotion. As I sat with head down before the fire my old friend laid an affectionate hand on my shoulder and said, “I'm sorry, my boy, very sorry, but there's no possible help for it.”
“You mean that my poor Lucy's case is hopeless.”
“I'm afraid it is. Whatever the cause—hereditary taint or hereditary curse—the poor child is under the ban.”
“For mercy's sake don't say so. Is there nothing I can do?”
“Yes, there is one thing—one only,” said Sir George.
“What's that?”
“Take your discharge, and thank God for your escape. You are on the threshold of life—think what it would be to drag at your heels a drunken woman!”
The word struck me like a blow in the face, and I cried out with the pain. “She may be saved yet,” I said. “Who shall say she may not?”
“Ask the doctors,” said Sir George. “They'll tell you there's no recorded instance of the reformation of a woman who has once fallen under that horrible curse of drink.”
When I got up to go I showed Sir George the letter from my father. “Telegraph,” he said. “You must stop him. Telegraph immediately.”
I walked home by the Strand. It was “Boxing Night,” and some of the later theaters were discharging their dense crowds into the streets. The people were talking loudly and laughing. Many of them were making with all haste for the public houses. There were only a few minutes left before closing time. Drink, drink—during the next few days it seemed to pursue and haunt me. I saw it everywhere—its wrecks and ruins dogged my footsteps.
Towards the end of the week, a letter came from Lucy. The attack was over, and she was herself again; but she saw more plainly than before in what direction her duty lay. Our engagement must be considered off, at once and forever. “It is only right,” she wrote, “and even if you, in your love or your pity—and I am sure of both—desired to continue it, nothing would prevail with me to agree.” There were words of tenderness, too, very hard to bear, and only to be read with half blinded eyes. But the one deep impression left by the letter was that of a poor human soul—a soul so dear to me—struggling under the domination of the crave for drink.
Dear Robert—If you only knew (but God keep you from all such knowledge) how much I suffer when these periods approach, you would not, as I fear you may, pity me for my weakness, or reproach me for not conquering it. Oh, the terror of the time when I feel this craving come upon me! I give up all work. I write postponing all engagements, I excuse myself to everybody. I lock myself up from every eye. This is before it comes; but when I know it is near, and when the dreadful thing falls upon me, oh, the pain, the shame, the horror! Cheating myself, deceiving everybody about me, bribing the servants, and stealing in and out of my own house like a thief. Heaven save me from this fiend that takes hold of me and possesses me! But Heaven will not save me; I must end as my father ended. And, after all, I ought to be thankful that I have found my fate in time. If it had fallen on me after we had married, and, perhaps, after I had become a mother—but this is too painful to think of. Good by, dear Robert! Think of me as tenderly as you can. Though it is so hard to put away the thought of the happiness we dreamed of, it will be a comfort to me in my darkest hours to remember the joy you snatched for me out of my doomed and fated life.
Sir George was right—there was no help for it. I remembered my father, and went out to send him a telegram. At the telegraph office in Fleet Street I wrote my message: “Don't come—marriage postponed—am writing.” I held the message a long time in my hand, and could not
