There is a saying trite yet true that we should hasten to cherish those whom we love lest they leave us forever before we have loved them enough. There is another saying less true and more trite that of those that do leave only good should be said. To Sylvia presently these sayings recurred. Two days after the receipt of the letter from Mrs. Price she read in the papers that Fanny was dead.
The paper fell from her. For an hour, which passed as only such hours do pass, incomprehensibly, without consciousness of time, she sat, still and stricken.
Through raveled skeins of thought of which the tangled threads refused to wholly straighten, she blamed herself for all that had occurred. Not indeed for Loftus. The man, his life, his death, everything concerning him was abhorrent to her. Of him, other than that pity which can mingle with disgust, she had no concern whatever. But when she should have stood most steadfastly by Annandale she had turned from him. Had he not implored her forgiveness, and did she not know that all that God requires is that forgiveness be asked? But no. She had been too proud and that pride she had nursed until it was too late, until Annandale had married, with this double tragedy for climax.
It was all her fault, Sylvia told herself. All her own. Had she not abandoned Annandale he would have had no cause to threaten, Fanny would have lived, there would have been no shock to debilitate her and leave her a prey to disease. Fanny’s death was at her door.
Companioned by these thoughts for an hour she sat, still and stricken. When she aroused herself it seemed as though before her two figures stood. One said “I am Duty,” the other, “I am Grief.”
A message from the latter she imparted to Mrs. Price. Many messages not similar but cognate that lady received. Fanny had been very popular. Her popularity the rumor connecting her with Loftus had necessarily impaired. The arrest of her husband for shooting the man, and for shooting him, as it was generally understood, on her account, impaired it still more. In the upper circles the scandalous may be relished, but it is not endorsed. Had Fanny lived, those circles would have visited their displeasure in not visiting her at all. But death is a peacemaker. It comes and where there was war is a truce. By the worldly Fanny was immediately forgiven and by them as quickly forgot.
It was in July that she died. In September Sylvia returned to town. At once she asked Orr to arrange for her a visit to Annandale in the Tombs.
To that he objected. “You know,” he said, “that you will have to testify against him.”
“Against him!” Sylvia repeated with an air of utter surprise.
“Why, yes. He was here that night. He has admitted it. You will be asked to tell what he said.”
In Sylvia’s eyes both disdain and acquiescence surged. “And what of it?”
“But,” Orr exclaimed, “there is the threat. He made it in the presence of Harris and repeated it in yours.”
“He did nothing of the kind.”
“But you told me so.”
“You are mistaken. I know nothing of any threat whatever.”
“Oh,” said Orr with a bow, “this is magnificent.”
But he meant heroic. In view of the girl’s nature it was certainly that. What is more, it was helpful. With Fanny out of the way, the only one left that could testify to any threat was Harris, and Annandale’s word was quite as good as his, better even, for the value of the servant’s testimony would be weighed in scales in one of which would be the Chronicle’s dollars.
Orr said as much to Sylvia, but apparently his views did not seem to her very novel. It became obvious to him that she had thought it all out for herself.
“Besides,” she presently and irrelevantly continued, “I am to blame. If I had not been stupid with him, there would have been nothing to threaten about.”
That, Orr thought, was rather putting the dots on the i’s. But he did not mind. He was pleased with her. His respect for her had increased. Had she been the kind of a cousin to permit such a thing there and then he would have kissed her.
Yet some reward he felt was her due. As a result the interview which she asked he presently arranged. Under conditions which to her were as tragic as they were humiliating she saw Annandale in the visitors’ room at the Tombs. The room itself was not absolutely appalling, and though there was a keeper present, he was quite out of earshot, very oblivious, extremely civil and, parenthetically, handsomely paid.
Orr awaited her at the door. When she rejoined him her eyes were wet.
Orr looked at her. A little tune occurred to him. “Sylvia, Sylvia, I’m a-thinking—” But after all, he reflected, Fanny is dead.
Instantly the girl reddened and very distantly, her head in the air, announced, “We are betrothed.”
“Ah,” said Orr, “ah, indeed! The engagement will be rather long, I fear.”
“Oh, Melanchthon, don’t say that. Arthur is as innocent as you are. I know you don’t believe it, but—”
Orr interrupted her. “It is not a question of what I believe. Independent of your interest in the man he is my client. I owe him a duty. That duty is to get him off, or to do my best to.”
“I know you will,” Sylvia fervently replied; “I feel it. So does Arthur. Besides, the only one we have to fear is Harris.”
Orr smiled grimly. “Harris, I understand, is not very well.”
“Not well? What do you mean?” the girl wonderingly inquired.
“I mean,” he enigmatically answered,
