How the wretched woman longed for yet dreaded the return of her husband!  If he had been drinking again, as she feared, there, was before her a night of anguish and terror—­a night which might have for her no awaking in the world.  But she had learned to dread some things more than death.

Time wore on until it was past the hour for General Abercrombie’s return, and yet there was no sign of his coming.  At last the loud clang of the supper-bell ringing through the halls gave her a sudden start.  She clasped her hands across her forehead, while a look of anguish convulsed her face, then held them tightly against her heart and groaned aloud.

“God pity us both!” she cried, in a low, wailing voice, striking her hands together and lifting upward her eyes, that were full of the deepest anguish.

For a few moments her eyes were upraised.  Then her head sunk forward upon her bosom, and she sat an image of helpless despair.

A knock at the door roused her.  She started to her feet and opened it with nervous haste.

“A letter for you,” said a servant.

She took it from his hand and shut and locked the door before examining the handwriting on the envelope.  It was that of her husband.  She tore it open with trembling hand and read: 

“Dear Edith:  An order requiring my presence in Washington to-morrow morning has just reached me, and I have only time to make the train.  I shall be gone two or three days.”

The deep flush which excitement had spread over the face of Mrs. Abercrombie faded off, and the deadly pallor returned.  Her hands shook so that the letter dropped out of them and fell to the floor.  Another groan as of a breaking heart sobbed through her lips as she threw herself in despairing abandonment across the bed and buried her face deep among the pillows.

She needed no interpreter to unfold the true meaning of that letter.  Its unsteady and blotted words and its scrawled, uncertain signature told her too well of her husband’s sad condition.  His old enemy had stricken him down, his old strong, implacable enemy, always armed, always lying in wait for him, and always ready for the unguarded moment.

CHAPTER XV.

Doctor Hillhouse was in his office one morning when a gentleman named Carlton, in whose family he had practiced for two or three years, came in.  This was a few weeks before the party at Mr. Birtwell’s.

“Doctor”—­there was a troubled look on his visitor’s face—­“I wish you would call in to-day and examine a lump on Mrs. Carlton’s neck.  It’s been coming for two or three months.  We thought it only the swelling of a gland at first, and expected it to go away in a little while.  But in the last few weeks it has grown perceptibly.”

“How large is it?” inquired the doctor.

“About the size of a pigeon’s egg.”

“Indeed!  So large?”