The letter fell from her nerveless hands, and Marion, Lady Atherton, fell on her knees with a cry of despair.  She was powerless to help herself, she could do nothing, she could get no more money; and even if she could of what avail?  If she sent this, in a few weeks or months at the farthest, he would renew his demand, and she could not do more.  The sword must fall, as well now as in a year’s time; besides, the suspense was killing her.  The long strain upon her nerves began to tell at last.  She was fast, losing her health and strength; she could not eat nor sleep; she was as one beside herself; frightful dreams, dread that knew no words, fear that could not be destroyed, pursued her.  She grew so pale, so thin, so nervous, that Lord Atherton was alarmed about her.

If she had loved her husband less her despair would not have been so great.  Sooner than he should read those ill-considered words—­those protestations of love that made her face flush with flame—­sooner than he should read those she would die any death.  For it had come to that; she looked for death to save her.  She felt powerless in the hands of a villain who would never cease to persecute her.

She sent no answer to the letter.  What could she say?  She made one or two despairing efforts to get the money, found it impossible, then gave herself up for lost.

She did not write, but there came another note from him saying that unless he heard from her that the money was coming he would wait upon her husband on Friday morning and tell him all.

There was no further respite for her—­the sword had fallen—­she could not live and face it; she could not live knowing that her husband was to read those words of her folly, that he was to know all the deceit, the clandestine correspondence that weighed now so bear it.

“I shall never look in his face again,” she said to herself.  “I could never bear that he should see me after he knows that.”

She weighed it well in her mind.  She looked at it in every way, but the more she thought of it the more impossible it seemed.  She could not bring disgrace on her husband and live.  She could not doom her only child to sorrow and shame, yet live.  She could not bear the ignominy of the exposure.  She, who had been so proud of her fair fame, of her spotless name, her high reputation.  It was not possible.  She could not bear it.  Her hands trembled.  All the strength seemed to leave her.  She fell half-fainting—­moaning with white lips that she could not bear it and live.

Must she die?  Must she part with the sweet, warm life that filled her veins?  Must she seek death because she could no longer live?

No, she dare not.

“I cannot live and I dare not die,” she moaned.  “I am utterly wretched, utterly hopeless and miserable.  Life and death alike are full of terrors for me.”

What should she do?  Through the long, burning hours, through the long, dreary nights, she asked herself that question—­What should she do?