Alma was as good as her word.

She did everything without consulting me ­fixed the date of the reception for a month after the day of my father’s visit, and sent out invitations to all “the insular gentry” included in the lists which came from Nessy MacLeod in her stiff and formal handwriting.

These lists came morning after morning, until the invitations issued reached the grand total of five hundred.

As the rooms of the Castle were not large enough to accommodate so many guests, Alma proposed to erect a temporary pavilion.  My father agreed, and within a week hundreds of workmen from Blackwater were setting up a vast wooden structure, in the form of the Colosseum, on the headlands beyond the garden where Martin and I had walked together.

While the work went on my father’s feverish pride seemed to increase.  I heard of messages to Alma saying that no money was to be spared.  The reception was to surpass in grandeur any fête ever held in Ellan.  Not knowing what high stakes my father was playing for, I was frightened by this extravagance, and from that cause alone I wished to escape from the sight of it.

I could not escape.

I felt sure that Alma hated me with an implacable hatred, and that she was trying to drive me away, thinking that would be the easiest means to gain her own ends.  For this reason, among others, the woman in me would not let me fly, so I remained and went through a purgatory of suffering.

Price, too, who had reconciled herself to my revelation, was always urging me to remain, saying: 

“Why should you go, my lady?  You are your husband’s wife, aren’t you?  Fight it out, I say.  Ladies do so every day.  Why shouldn’t you?”

Before long the whole island seemed to be astir about our reception.  Every day the insular newspapers devoted columns to the event, giving elaborate accounts of what limitless wealth could accomplish for a single night’s entertainment.  In these descriptions there was much eulogy of my father as “the uncrowned king of Ellan,” as well as praise of Alma, who was “displaying such daring originality,” but little or no mention of myself.

Nevertheless everybody seemed to understand the inner meaning of the forthcoming reception, and in the primitive candour of our insular manners some of the visits I received were painfully embarrassing.

One of the first to come was my father’s advocate, Mr. Curphy, who smiled his usual bland smile and combed his long beard while he thanked me for acting on his advice not to allow a fit of pique to break up a marriage which was so suitable from points of property and position.

“How happy your father must be to see the fulfilment of his hopes,” he said.  “Just when his health is failing him, too!  How good!  How gratifying!”

The next to come was the Bishop, who, smooth and suave as ever, congratulated me on putting aside all thoughts of divorce, so that the object of my marriage might be fulfilled and a good Catholic become the heir of Castle Raa.

More delicate, but also more distressing, was a letter from Father Dan, saying he had been forbidden my husband’s house and therefore could not visit me, but having heard an angel’s whisper of the sweet joy that was coming to me, he prayed the Lord and His Holy Mother to carry me safely through.

“I have said a rosary for you every day since you were here, my dear child, that you might be saved from a great temptation.  And now I know you have been, and the sacrament of your holy marriage has fulfilled its mission, as I always knew it would.  So God bless you, my daughter, and keep you pure and fit for eternal union with that blessed saint, your mother, whom the Lord has made His own.”

More than ever after this letter I felt that I must fly from my husband’s house, but, thinking of Alma, my wounded pride, my outraged vanity (as I say, the woman in me), would not let me go.

Three weeks passed.

The pavilion had been built and was being hung with gaily painted bannerets to give the effect of the Colosseum as seen at sunset.  A covered corridor connecting the theatre with the house was being lined with immense hydrangeas and lit from the roof by lamps that resembled stars.

A few days before the day fixed for the event Alma, who had been too much occupied to see me every day in the boudoir to which I confined myself, came up to give me my instructions.

The entertainment was to begin at ten o’clock.  I was to be dressed as Cleopatra and to receive my guests in the drawing-room.  At the sound of a fanfare of trumpets I was to go into the theatre preceded by a line of pages, and accompanied by my husband.  After we had taken our places in a private box a great ballet, brought specially from a London music-hall, was to give a performance lasting until midnight.  Then there was to be a cotillon, led by Alma herself with my husband, and after supper the dancing was to be resumed and kept up until sunrise, when a basketful of butterflies and doves (sent from the South of France) were to be liberated from cages, and to rise in a multicoloured cloud through the sunlit space.

I was sick and ashamed when I thought of this vain and gaudy scene and the object which I supposed it was intended to serve.

The end of it all was that I wrote to my father, concealing the real cause of my suffering, but telling him he could not possibly be aware of what was being done in his name and with his money, and begging him to put an end to the entertainment altogether.

The only answer I received was a visit from Nessy MacLeod.  I can see her still as she came into my room, the tall gaunt figure with red hair and irregular features.

“Cousin Mary,” she said, seating herself stiffly on the only stiff-backed chair, and speaking in an impassive tone, “your letter has been received, but your father has not seen it, his health being such as makes it highly undesirable that he should be disturbed by unnecessary worries.”

I answered with some warmth that my letter had not been unnecessary, but urgent and important, and if she persisted in withholding it from my father I should deliver it myself.

“Cousin Mary,” said Nessy, “I know perfectly what your letter is, having opened and read it, and while I am as little as yourself in sympathy with what is going on here, I happen to know that your father has set his heart on this entertainment, and therefore I do not choose that it shall be put off.”

I replied hotly that in opening my letter to my father she had taken an unwarrantable liberty, and then (losing myself a little) I asked her by what right did she, who had entered my father’s house as a dependent, dare to keep his daughter’s letter from him.

“Cousin Mary,” said Nessy, in the same impassive tone, “you were always self-willed, selfish, and most insulting as a child, and I am sorry to see that neither marriage nor education at a convent has chastened your ungovernable temper.  But I have told you that I do not choose that you shall injure your father’s health by disturbing his plans, and you shall certainly not do so.”

“Then take care,” I answered, “that in protecting my father’s health you do not destroy it altogether.”

In spite of her cold and savourless nature, she understood my meaning, for after a moment of silence she said: 

“Cousin Mary, you may do exactly as you please.  Your conduct in the future, whatever it may be, will be no affair of mine, and I shall not consider that I am in any way responsible for it.”

At last I began to receive anonymous letters.  They came from various parts of Ellan and appeared to be in different handwritings.  Some of them advised me to fly from the island, and others enclosed a list of steamers’ sailings.

Only a woman who has been the victim of this species of cowardly torture can have any idea of the shame of it, and again and again I asked myself if I ought not to escape from my husband’s house before he returned.

But Price seemed to find a secret joy in the anonymous letters, saying she believed she knew the source of them:  and one evening towards the end, she came running into my room with a shawl over her head, a look of triumph in her face, and an unopened letter in her hand.

“There!” she said.  “It’s all up with Madame now.  You’ve got the game in your own hands, my lady, and can send them all packing.”

The letter was addressed to my husband in London.  Price had seized the arm of Alma’s maid in the act of posting it, and under threat of the law (not to speak of instant personal chastisement) the girl had confessed that both this letter and others had been written by our housekeeper under the inspiration of her mistress.

Without any compunction Price broke the seal of the intercepted letter and read it aloud to me.  It was a shocking thing, accusing me with Martin, and taunting my husband with the falseness of the forthcoming entertainment.

Feeling too degraded to speak, I took the letter in silence out of my maid’s hands, and while I was in the act of locking it away in a drawer Alma came up with a telegram from my husband, saying he was leaving London by the early train the following morning and would arrive at Blackwater at half-past three in the afternoon.

“Dear old Jimmy!” she said, “what a surprise you have in store for him!  But of course you’ve told him already, haven’t you? . . .  No?  Ah, I see, you’ve been saving it all up to tell him face to face.  Oh, happy, happy you!”

It was too late to leave now.  The hour of my trial had come.  There was no possibility of escape.  It was just as if Satan had been holding me in the net of my sin, so that I could not fly away.

At three o’clock next day (which was the day before the day fixed for the reception) I heard the motor-car going off to meet my husband at Blackwater.  At four o’clock I heard it return.  A few minutes afterwards I heard my husband’s voice in the hall.  I thought he would come up to me directly, but he did not do so, and I did not attempt to go down.  When, after a while, I asked what had become of him, I was told that he was in the library with Alma, and that they were alone.

Two hours passed.

To justify and fortify myself I thought how badly my husband had behaved to me.  I remembered that he had married me from the most mercenary motives; that he had paid off his mistress with the money that came through me; that he had killed by cruelty the efforts I had made to love him; that he had humiliated me by gross infidelities committed on my honeymoon.  I recalled the scenes in Rome, the scenes in Paris, and the insults I had received under my own roof.

It was all in vain.  Whether God means it that the woman’s fault in breaking her marriage vows (whatever her sufferings and excuse) shall be greater than that of the man I do not know.  I only know that I was trembling like a prisoner before her judge when, being dressed for dinner and waiting for the sound of the bell, I heard my husband’s footsteps approach my door.

I was standing by the fire at that moment, and I held on to the mantelpiece as my husband came into the room.