had he laid it down on the seat, and flung it back to him. It is easy to preach, and tell the galled jade not to wince. I made no such reply as that to him—for in truth I had some sense as of being released. Indeed, I thanked him for his kindness. It is only now that I see what he was at. Then he said, wringing my hand, "I think so much of you for this. You are a fine character, Mr. Austen!" There was a letter of hers—Dora's, which I had not yet read, nor had I time to read. A harassed, persecuted man has enough to occupy his baited soul, without being brought to an account for having lost a second—a breach of affectionate duty, and all that. I suppose the characters are not written in invisible ink and will not fly away. If I loved a friend to distraction I would say to them all the same, "For God's sake, don't whine!"
"I had such a dream about you last night,
darling—such a frightful real dream!
With all that money in your keeping,
and belonging to another, and with the
temptations of that frightful place! Oh,
come back—come back to us at once!
And, oh! if you feel the least temptation—and,
dearest, it is no harm if you do—at
that moment fly—leave everything behind
rather than incur the danger. Then, too,
you may be thinking of us, and of what is
to meet you at home. That is dismal
enough, I feel; but an honest stainless
heart will bear us through all. Mr. Bernard,
besides, has the same idea; and he
really frightened me yesterday, for you
know what an inflexible man he is, and he
prides himself on it. Here were his words,
which I thought I ought to repeat for you:
'I am sorry I put such a temptation in
his way now. Had I thought he would
have taken to lecturing, he should never
have had it. But I warn you, Mrs.
Austen, if there is anything wrong, I
shan't spare him. I shall make no distinction
between him and a poor man;
and he would be ten times as guilty.' I
told him, with scorn, that he did not know
you, nor know me, and that his suspicion
dishonoured us both. He said that any
tampering with money would be a greater
dishonour, and went away a little displeased."
Anything wrong! A fine way of pleasing
the man—instead of soothing him,
when, God knows, I want all indulgence
and mercy, to go inflaming him against me
with defiant speeches. Always the way—no
help even at home; enemies there! And
such folly! Suppose I did want the money?
"I thought I would even rush to the
telegraph office, and let you know at once.
The whole so frightened me, and seemed—forgive
me, dearest—so natural and probable.
No crime indeed for you—what so
many good people have done and repented
of."
Run to the telegraph office! They seem
to have money enough to think of such
freaks and extravagances, while I am
hunted and harried down to the very wall
here, and the only relief I get is to be
lectured; lectured by every fool that walks
the right way.
O why did I not go with them? Who is now the greatest fool that walks the highway—the greatest malefactor in this den of malefactors? No; but these girls would go on with their foolish chatting and curiosity on the platform, instead of taking their seats. Or did they do it on purpose? All had been well! But the demons must pursue me here: or were they his agents? That father, with his platitudes, must go walking up and down, until that captain comes up eagerly.
"All but late," he cried out joyfully; "but it had been no harm if I was."
"Well, I warned you, my dear boy."
"So you did, but luckily I did not mind. Feel that coat-pocket, and that—literally bursting. I crammed them all in, notes, silver, gold, everything, anyhow."
My heart began to beat. The old infernal music was striking up, the black imps clanging their cymbals. The girls came to him. I saw the light in their eyes.
"Why you had lost everything, Captain Conway?"
"Five hundred pounds, as I have a commission, which should have been sold next month to meet expenses. In fact, the letter has gone to the agents. But I'll stop 'em by telegraph at Frankfort. Just passing that infernal Cure house—or, I beg its pardon, what was that infernal place?—in my cab. Portmanteau on the seat opposite. Something—I don't know what it was—prompted me to stop. I rushed in. Something—I don't know what, but I never did it before—made me ask the croupier, 'Zero been up lately?' 'Not for a half-hour,' he said. Something else—God knows what—made me give him a couple of double fredericks. 'Put that on,' I said. 'Look sharp, too.' On it went. Click, flop; and, by Jove, you should have seen the
