“Well, after more than two years, I thought he must have put me out of his mind, and so I returned, and made my reappearance to-night.  And, mercy on me!—­there he was, waiting outside the theatre.  From his appearance, I suppose the aunt has died and he has come into the money.  He followed me home, as you saw; and for a moment, when he was carrying me toward the coach, I vow I had a fear of being rushed away to a seaport, and taken by force, on some fisherman’s boat, across the Channel.  And then, all of a sudden, ’twas as if you two had sprung out of the earth.  Where did you come from?  How was it?  Oh, tell me all—­all the news!  Poor Tom!  I thought I should die when I heard of his death.  ’Twas—­’twas Falconer told me—­how he was killed in a skirmish with the—­What’s the matter?  Why do you look so?  Isn’t it true?  I entreat—!”

“Did Falconer tell you Tom died that way?” I blurted out, hotly, ere Phil could check me.

“In truth, he did!  How was it?” She had turned white as a sheet.

“’Twas Falconer killed him in a duel,” said I, with indignation, “the very night after you sailed!”

“What, Fal—!  A duel!  My God, on my account, then!  Oh, I never knew that!  Oh, Tom—­little Tom—­the dear little fellow—­’twas I killed him!” She flung her head forward upon the table, and sobbed wildly, so that I repented of my outspoken anger at Falconer’s deception of her.  For some minutes her grief was pitiful to see.  If ever there was the anguish of remorse, it was then.  I sat sobered, leaving it to Phil to apply comfort, which, when her outburst of tears had spent its violence, he undertook to do.

“Well, well, Madge,” said he, softly, “’tis done and past now, and not for us to recall.  ’Twas an honourable death, such as he would never have shrunk from; and he has long been past all sorrow.  The most of his life, while it lasted, was happy; and 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: