Mrs. Meredith Has a Conscience

She had one, years before, but, since the summer day when she sent
from her the white-faced man whose heart she had broken, it had been
hardening over with a stony crust which nothing, it seemed, could
break. And yet there were times when she was softened and wished that
much which she had done might be blotted out from the great book in
which she believed.

There was many a misdeed recorded there against her, she knew, and
occasionally there stole over her a strange disquietude as to how she
could confront them when they all came up against her.

Usually, she could cast such thoughts aside by a drive down gay
Broadway, or, at most, a call at Stewart's; but the sight of Anna's
white face and the knowing what made it so white was a constant
reproach, and conscience gradually wakened from its torpor enough to
whisper of the only restitution in her power--that of confession to
Arthur.

But from this she shrank nervously. She could not humble herself thus
to any one, and she would not either. Then came the fear lest by
another than herself her guilt should come to light. What if Thornton
Hastings should find her out? She was half afraid he suspected her
now, and that gave her the keenest pang of all, for she respected
Thornton highly, and it would cost her much to lose his good opinion.

She had lost him for her niece, but she could not spare him from
herself, and so, in sad perplexity, which wore upon her visibly, the
autumn days went on until at last she sat one morning in her
dressing-room and read in a foreign paper: "Died, at Strasburgh, August 31st, Edward Coleman, aged 46."