'Ay, we must and we will!'
'You need not remind me of—of her!' cried Ryan, fiercely, all in a moment.
'Ah, poor thing, poor thing!' said Pound.
'Why, has anything happened?'
'Poor soul!'
'Speak, man, for God's sake! Is she—is she—'
Ryan could not get out the word, trembling as he was with intense excitement. Pound broke into a brutal laugh.
'No, Ned Ryan, she isn't dead, if that's what you want. I am sorry for you. Now that you're going to behave handsome, I should have liked to bring you good news. Yet, though she hangs on still, she's going down the hill pretty quick—her own way. But she's waiting for us three fields off; we'd better go to her before she comes to us. Come this way.'
Pound led the way to the hay-field. Miles followed him, filled with foreboding. What had happened to Elizabeth? Was the woman ill? Was she dying? Bad as he was—bad as she was—could he go coldly on his way and let her die? He thought of her as he had seen her last, two months ago; and then strangely enough, he figured her as he had first seen her, many, many years ago. Poor thing! poor Liz!
'She is not here,' said Pound, when he came to the gate that Elizabeth Ryan had clung to. 'Now I wonder— stay! what is that over there? Come, let's look. It may be—by Heaven, it is your wife!'
He had pointed to a dark object among the mounds of hay. Now the two men stood looking down on the insensible form of Elizabeth Ryan.
'No, not death,' said Pound; 'only brandy!'
The husband looked down upon his wretched wife without speaking or moving. Oh, that it were death! His muscles were rigid—repugnance and loathing froze him to the bone. How white her face was in the faint moonshine! how white that hand under the white cheek! and the other hand stretched helplessly out—good God! the wedding-ring he had placed there, she dared to wear it still! Oh, that this were death!
And a minute ago he had thought of her—for some seconds together—not unkindly!
At last Ryan spoke.
'I dare swear,' he murmured, as though speaking to himself, 'that she has not got our certificate! A ring is no proof.'
Pound knelt down and shook some sense into the woman's head.
'Eh? What is it? Where am I?'
He whispered hurriedly in her ear: 'He is here—your husband. He says something about your having no proof that you are his wife. Give me the certificate!'
Without grasping the meaning of any but the last word, Elizabeth Ryan mechanically drew forth from her bosom a folded square of paper. Pound took it from her, and unfolded it with his back to Ryan. When he faced about, Pound held the certificate in his left hand and a revolver in his right.
Ryan paid no heed to the pistol, beyond recognising it as one of his own—the fellow, in fact, to the one he at that moment carried in his own pocket; Pound's last transaction, as a member of Sundown's gang, having been to help himself to this and other trifles as keepsakes. The production of the weapon Ryan treated, or affected to treat, with contempt. The certificate took up his whole attention. Yet one glance, even in the moonlight, was sufficient to show him that the certificate was genuine.
'You may put them both away,' was all he said. 'But remember: to-morrow night, same spot and hour. Or let us say here, at this gate: it is farther from the house.'
He turned to go, but suddenly recoiled, being face to face with his wife, who had struggled to her feet. With a strange wild cry the woman flung herself into his arms. Ryan caught her, held her one instant, then dashed her heavily to the ground, and fled like a murderer from the place.
The poor thing lay groaning, yet sobered.
'Ah, I remember,' she moaned at last, gathering up her bruised and aching limbs. 'I was drugged—by you!'
The look of terrible hatred which she darted at Jem Pound was ineffable but calm. He answered her with a stout denial:
'I gave you nothing but brandy, and that I gave you for the best. I didn't mean it to knock you over, but I'm not sorry it did. Bad as it was, it would have been worse if you had seen much more of him.'
'Why? What did he say?'
'He said he wouldn't give us a farthing. No, not if you were starving. He said you were less than nothing to him now. He said we might do our worst, and the sooner hell swallowed both of us the better he'd like it.'
Mrs. Ryan gave a little cry of pain and anger. She staggered across the dewy grass, and confronted Pound at arm's length. She was shaking and shivering like a withered leaf.
'Jem Pound,' said she, 'I will tell you what I have known for many weeks, but hidden from you. I will tell you where he has that money, or some of it.'
'Where?' cried Pound.
She tapped him lightly on the chest.
'There!' said Mrs. Ryan.
'How the devil do you know?'
