One morning--it was the day after my physicians had pronounced me out of
all danger--Crawley sent me a note by Ellinor, congratulating me upon my
recovery, and begging to speak to me for half an hour. I refused to see
him; and said, that I was not yet well enough to do business. The same
morning Ellinor came with a message from Turner, my steward, who, with
his humble duty, requested to see me for five minutes, to communicate to
me something of importance. I consented to see Turner. He entered with a
face of suppressed joy and affected melancholy.
“Sad news I am bound in duty to be the bearer of, my lord. I was
determined, whatever came to pass, however, not to speak till your
honour was out of danger, which, I thank Heaven, is now the case, and I
am happy to be able to congratulate your lordship upon looking as well
as--”
“Never mind my looks. I will excuse your congratulations, Mr. Turner,”
said I, impatiently; for the recollection of the banqueting-house, and
the undertaker whom Turner was so eager to introduce, came full into my
mind. “Go on, if you please; five minutes is all I am at present able
to give to any business, and you sent me word you had something of
importance to communicate.”
“True, my lord; but in case your lordship is not at present well enough,
or not so disposed, I will wait your lordship’s leisure.”
“Now or never, Mr. Turner. Speak, but speak at once.”
“My lord, I would have done so long ago, but was loth to make mischief;
and besides, could not believe what I heard whispered, and would scarce
believe what I verily saw; though now, as I cannot reasonably have a
doubt, I think it would be a sin, and a burden upon my conscience, not
to speak; only that I am unwilling to shock your lordship too much, when
but just recovering, for that is not the time one would wish to tell or
to hear disagreeable things.”
“Mr. Turner, either come to the point at once, or leave me; for I am not
strong enough to bear this suspense.”
“I beg pardon, my lord: why then, my lord, the point is Captain
Crawley.”
“What of him? I never desire to hear his name again.”
“Nor I, I am sure, my lord; but there are some in the house might not be
of our opinion.”
“Who? you sneaking fellow; speak out, can’t you?”
“My lady--my lord--Now it is out. She’ll go off with him this night, if
not prevented.”
My surprise and indignation were as great as if I had always been the
fondest and the most attentive of husbands. I was at length roused from
that indifference and apathy into which I had sunk; and though I had
never loved my wife, the moment I knew she was lost to me for ever was
exquisitely painful. Astonishment, the sense of disgrace, the feeling of
rage against that treacherous parasite by whom she had been seduced, all
combined to overwhelm me. I could command my voice only enough to bid
Turner leave the room, and tell no one that he had spoken to me on this
subject. “Not a soul,” he said, “should be told, or could guess it.”
Left to my own reflections, as soon as the first emotions of anger
subsided, I blamed myself for my conduct to Lady Glenthorn. I considered
that she had been married to me by her friends, when she was too young
and too childish to judge for herself; that from the first day of our
marriage I had never made the slightest effort to win her affections,
or to guide her conduct; that, on the contrary, I had shown her marked
indifference, if not aversion. With fashionable airs, I had professed,
that provided she left me at liberty to spend the large fortune which
she brought me, and in consideration of which she enjoyed the title
of Countess of Glenthorn, I cared for nothing farther. With the
consequences of my neglect I now reproached myself in vain. Lady
Glenthorn’s immense fortune had paid my debts, and had for two years
supplied my extravagance, or rather my indolence: little remained,
and she was now, in her twenty-third year, to be consigned to public
disgrace, and to a man whom I knew to be destitute of honour and
feeling. I pitied her, and resolved to go instantly and make an effort
to save her from destruction.
Ellinor, who watched all Crawley’s motions, informed me, that he was
gone to a neighbouring town, and had left word that he should not be
home till after dinner. Lady Glenthorn was in her dressing-room, which
was at a part of the house farthest from that which I now inhabited. I
had never left my room since my illness, and had scarcely walked
farther than from my bed to my arm-chair; but I was so much roused by
my feelings at this instant, that, to Ellinor’s great astonishment, I
started from my chair, and, forbidding her to follow me, walked without
any assistance along the corridor, which led to the back-stairs, and
to Lady Glenthorn’s apartment. I opened the private door of her
dressing-room suddenly--the room was in great disorder--her woman was
upon her knees packing a trunk: Lady Glenthorn was standing at a table,
with a parcel of open letters before her, and a diamond necklace in her
hand. She started at the sight of me as if she had beheld a ghost: the
maid screamed, and ran to a door at the farther end of the room, to make
her escape, but that was bolted. Lady Glenthorn was pale and motionless,
till I approached; and then, recollecting herself, she reddened all
over, and thrust the letters into her table-drawer. Her woman, at the
same instant, snatched a casket of jewels, swept up in her arms a heap
of clothes, and huddled them all together into the half-packed trunk.
“Leave the room,” said I to her sternly. She locked the trunk, pocketed
the key, and obeyed.
I placed a chair for Lady Glenthorn, and sat down myself. We were almost
equally unable to stand. We were silent for some moments. Her eyes
were fixed upon the ground, and she leaned her head upon her hand in an
attitude of despair. I could scarcely articulate; but making an effort
to command my voice, I at last said--
“Lady Glenthorn, I blame myself more than you for all that has
happened.”
“For what?” said she, making a feeble attempt at evasion, yet at the
same time casting a guilty look towards the drawer of letters.
“You have nothing to conceal from me,” said I.
“Nothing!” said she, in a feeble voice.
“Nothing,” said I; “for I know every thing”--she started--“and am
willing to pardon every thing.”
She looked up in my face astonished. “I am conscious,” continued I,
“that you have not been well treated by me. You have had much reason
to complain of my neglect. To this I attribute your error. Forget the
past--I will set you the example. Promise me never to see the man more,
and what has happened shall never be known to the world.”
She made me no answer, but burst into a flood of tears. She seemed
incapable of decision, or even of thought. I felt suddenly inspired with
energy.
“Write this moment,” continued I, placing a pen and ink before her,
“write to forbid him ever to return to this house, or ever more to
appear in your presence. If he should appear in mine, I know how
to chastise him, and to vindicate my own honour. To preserve your
reputation, I refrain, upon these conditions, from making my contempt of
him public.”
I put a pen into Lady Glenthorn’s hand; but she trembled so that she
could not write. She made several ineffectual attempts, then tore the
paper; and again giving way to tears, exclaimed, “I cannot write--I
cannot think--I do not know what to say. Write what you will, and I will
sign it.”
“I write to Captain Crawley! Write what _I_ will! Lady Glenthorn, it
must be your will to write, not mine. If it be not your will, say so.”
“Oh! I do not say so--I do not say _that_. Give me a moment’s time. I do
not know what I say. I have been very foolish--very wicked. You are very
good--but it is too late: it will all be known. Crawley will betray me;
he will tell it to Mrs. Mattocks: so whichever way I turn, I am undone.
Oh! what _will_ become of me?”
She wrung her hands and wept, and was for an hour in this state, in
all the indecision and imbecility of a child. At last, she wrote a few
scarcely legible lines to Crawley, forbidding him to see or think of
her more. I despatched the note, and she was full of penitence, and
gratitude, and tears. The next morning, when I wakened, I in my turn
received a note from her ladyship.
“Since I saw you, Captain Crawley has convinced me that I am his wife,
_in the eye of Heaven_, and I therefore desire a divorce, as much as
your _whole conduct_, since my marriage, convinces me _you_ must in your
_heart_, whatever may be your motives to _pretend_ otherwise. Before you
receive this I shall be _out of your way_ and _beyond your reach_; so do
not think of pursuing one who is no longer,
“Yours,
“A. CRAWLEY.”
After reading this note, I thought not of pursuing or saving Lady
Glenthorn. I was as anxious for a divorce as she could be. Some months
afterwards the affair was brought to a public trial. When the cause
came on, so many circumstances were brought in mitigation of damages,
to prove my utter carelessness respecting my wife’s conduct, that a
suspicion of collusion arose. From this imputation I was clear in the
opinion of all who really knew me; and I repelled the charge publicly,
with a degree of indignation that surprised all who knew the usual
apathy of my temper. I must observe, that during the whole time my
divorce-bill was pending, and whilst I was in the greatest possible
anxiety, my health was perfectly good. But no sooner was the affair
settled, and a decision made in my favour, than I relapsed into my old
nervous complaints.