Saved from herself or, On the edge of doom

out. He had supported my wife for years, since he was a mere boy, and he had paid me to keep the marriage that was no marriage a secret, and he threatened to expose me. I should have been ruined at the bar and elsewhere. “I went to see him on the day his engagement was announced. On the way I bought a bottle of prussic acid. If he gave me his word not to expose me, well and good! If not”--he shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I was stronger than he. To knock him down and pour the prussic acid in his mouth would not be hard. But I had no need. “I found him lying on his sofa, ill, but quite obstinate. That very night should see me a marked and disgraced man; his letters were written. And then he asked me--me to hand him something that was poured out ready in a glass, because his throat was sore! I did, but first I poured in what was in my bottle. He drank a mere mouthful. Then he threw down the glass and tried to call. But that time was over. “I laid him back on the sofa, as if he slept, and I had barely time to hide in the bedroom when that lady there”--looking at Mrs. Trelane--“came in and found Lord Abbotsford dead. The rest you know, even to the jewels that were her own! I trust, my lord, that the case is done, and that the ladies and gentlemen who have honored the court”--with an ironical bow--“have not found the entertainment more dull than they expected.” A little rustle ran through the court. Never had there been so extraordinary an ending to a trial for murder. A man who let his life go because he was weary of the tedious defense of it! Not even the judge could find voice for an instant. And then some one screamed. Marcus Wray had fallen in the dock like a slaughtered ox. “A fit! Poison!” Every soul there gasped out one word or the other. But it was neither. The long strain, the sudden effort of cool courage had ruptured a blood-vessel in his brain. As he fell, so he lay; as he lay, so he died; never speaking or moving again. The case for the defense was closed. The luck of Marcus Wray had stuck by him to the end. Ismay clung in silence to Cylmer when he told her. When she lifted her face it was wet. “I’m glad, oh, glad!” she sobbed. “When I thought I had brought him to it, that it was through me he must be hanged, I didn’t tell you, but I thought it would drive me mad.” “Forget it, sweet. Blot it out from your mind,” was all he could find to say. “We will never speak of it again.” “There’s one thing first. The boy! I promised him money, and I have none.” “You!” he laughed. “You have fifteen thousand pounds a year, all I own. You shall have the boy taught a trade, and set him up in it. I have seen about it already!” He looked keenly at her face, that was too pale, too weary. “Ismay,” he said quietly, “I am going to marry you in three weeks, as soon as things can be arranged, and take you away to travel. Can you bear that prospect? I’ve never known you go to church. Will you come--once--with me?” The color flooded her face. “To marry you, do you mean?” She clung to him. Ismay, who had relied on herself alone. “Yes; but, Miles, listen. I don’t want any wedding, and I won’t wear a white gown. The only white gown I ever owned had a blood-stain on it, and I can’t forget it--yet.” “As you like, my sweet.” And the touch of his lips on her forehead was full of understanding. They were married as she wished, quietly, Sir Gaspard giving away the bride, and portioning her with generosity born of his great gratitude. It was two years before Miles Cylmer and Ismay came home to Cylmer’s Ferry, two years that Mrs. Trelane spent gaily, having five hundred a year allowed her by the baronet, and living where she liked. Cristiane, sobered and steadied, lived with her father, and he had his wish of taking her to London, and seeing her marry a man who preferred her before any green-eyed Circe in the world. To do her justice, Sir Gaspard never heard of that stolen card, only of Ismay’s protection and bravery in the tragic chapters of her life. And there is no cynicism now in the lines of Ismay Cylmer’s beautiful face. The love that nearly was her doom has been her saving grace. THE END. EAGLE SERIES A weekly publication devoted to good literature. December 10, 1907. No. 550 STREET & SMITH are now the Owners of all CHARLES GARVICE’S COPYRIGHTED NOVELS We do not need to tell any of our patrons how popular the works of Charles Garvice are because his name is a byword wherever first-class novels are read and appreciated. We are pleased, therefore, to announce the purchase of the plates of the only twenty-five copyrighted stories by him that we did not have. This purchase makes Street & Smith the sole owners and publishers of all of this celebrated author’s copyrighted stories. This only emphasizes what has always been a patent fact--that Street & Smith are the most progressive paper-book publishers in the world, and that nowhere can the novel reader get so much for his or her money as in the S. & S. lines. STREET & SMITH, Publishers New York Transcriber’s Notes: Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected (sometimes in consultation with the original 1898-1899 serial appearance in _Street & Smith’ New York Weekly_ to ensure accuracy to the author's intent). Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by the transcriber. Inconsistent hyphenation of upstairs vs. up-stairs is preserved from the original text.