“Her uncle—­Sharp—­is with her by this time.  She implored me not to be in the way.  There would be a row, you know, and I hate rows.”

It was Bertram to the last. He hated rows!  I suddenly turned upon him with an idea that flashed through my mind.

“Bertram, you owe this poor woman some reparation.  You love her, you say—­or have loved her.”

“Do love her now.”

“She is a free woman; indeed, poor soul, she has always been.  Marry her—­take her away—­and get to some quiet place where you will be unknown.  You will be happy with her, or I have strangely misread her.”

“Can’t,” Bertram dolefully answered.  “Not a farthing.”

“I’ll help you.”

Bertram grasped my hand.  His difficulty was removed.

I continued rapidly, “Give me your address.  I’ll see Sharp, and, if they permit me, Mrs. Daker.  Let us make an effort to end this miserable business well.  You had better remain behind till I have settled with Sharp.”

Bertram remained inert, without power of thinking or speaking, in his seat.  I pushed him, to rouse him.  “Bertram, the address—­quick.”

“Too late, my dear Q. M.—­much too late.  She’s dying—­I am sure of it.”

The address was 102 in the next street to that in which we had been breakfasting.  I hurried off, tearing myself, at last, by force from Bertram.  I ran down the street, round the corner, looking right and left at the numbers as I ran.  I was within a few doors of the number when I came with a great shock against a man, who was walking like myself without looking ahead.  I growled and was pushing past, when an iron grip fell upon my shoulder.  It was Reuben Sharp.  He was so altered I had difficulty in recognising him.  At that moment he looked a madman; his eyes were wild and savage; his lips were blue; his face was masked by convulsive twitches.

“I was running to see you.  Come back,” I said.

“It’s no use—­no use.  They can ill-treat her no more.  My darling Emmy!  It’s all over—­all over—­and you have been very kind to me.”

The poor man clapped his heavy hands upon me like the paws of a lion, and wept, as weak women and children weep.

Yea, it was all over.

It was on New Year’s Day, 1867, I supported Reuben Sharp, following a hearse to the cemetery hard by.  Lucy Rowe accompanied us—­at my urgent request—­and her presence served to soften and support old Reuben’s honest Kentish heart in his desolate agony.  As they lowered the coffin a haggard face stretched over a tomb behind us.  Sharp was blinded with tears, and did not see it.

CHAPTER XV.

THE FIRST TO BE MARRIED.

It will happen so—­and here is our moral—­the bonnets of Sophonisba and Theodosia, bewitching as they were, and archly as these young ladies wore them, paling every toilette of the Common, were not put aside for bridal veils.  Carrie, who was content with silver-grey, it was who returned to Paris first, sitting at the side of the writer of the following letters, sent, it is presumed, to his bachelor friend:—­