TIGHTENING THE CURB.
The garden-party at Uplands had a serious effect on the household in
Great Adullam Street. Of course the actual disturbance, the state of
warfare engendered by what Frank Churchill imagined he had seen take
place between his wife and Captain Lyster in the shrubbery, did not
last long. When Barbara swept up to her bedroom from the hired
brougham, Frank retreated into his little snuggery and lit his old
meerschaum-pipe, and sat gazing vacantly through the smoke-wreaths,
and pondering on the occurrences of the day. He could scarcely realise
to himself what had passed; he could scarcely imagine that the woman
to whom, twelve months since, he had sworn fealty, whose lightest
whisper caused his pulse to throb, and who, on her part, had changed
the whole style and current of her life for the sake of fulfilling her
determination to be his and his alone, could have so far repented of
that great crisis in her career as to listen to the compliments of
another man, to receive, with evident satisfaction, his unqualified
admiration, and to fly off in a rage, with fire in her eyes and bitter
words on her lips, when her husband remonstrated with her on her
conduct. Here were they, that "twain one flesh," that mysterious
two-in-oner sitting under the same roof indeed, but in separate rooms;
each thinking hard thoughts of the other, each with anger rife against
the other, and with harsh words applied to each other yet ringing in
their ears. Great Heavens! thought Frank, was this what he had fondly
pictured to himself? Was this the quiet haven of repose, the lodge in
the vast wilderness of Mesopotamia, with one fair spirit for his
minister, on which he had so rashly reckoned? Was the lodge to be a
divided territory? and was the fair spirit to be equally fair to some
other man, and to be a minister of the blatant, reviling, Boanerges
class? Instead of the quiet and rest on which he had calculated, and
which were so necessary to him after his exciting hard work, was his
mind to be racked by petty jealousies, his peace invaded by wretched
squabbles, the sunshine of his existence overclouded with gloom and
doubt? Was his wife to be an adversary instead of a helpmate? were
her-- And then abruptly he stopped in his self-torturing, as he
thought of her,--how friendless and unprotected she was, how he alone
was her prop and stay in the world; and then he turned the whole
matter in his mind, and it occurred to him that that horribly
irritable temper of his might have led him again into mischief,
causing him to see things that really might not have happened, and to
use language far stronger than there was any necessity for, and to
render him violent and undignified and absurd, and so completely to do
away with the force accruing from his right position. For undoubtedly
he was in the right position; for had he not seen with his own
eyes--what? They were walking together, certainly; but there was no
reason why that should not be: fifty other couples were promenading
the same grounds at the same time, and--no! on reflection, he did not
see Lyster kiss her hand; it was that young idiot who was gabbling to
him the whole time, and who said something about it. Perhaps nothing
of the kind had occurred. Barbara had denied it instantly; and when
had she ever breathed a falsehood to him? She was not the style of
woman to equivocate; her pride would save her from that; and--it must
have been all fancy! some horrible mistake, out of which had arisen
this wretched scene and his worse than wretched rage. And now there
was something between them, some horrible misunderstanding which must
be at once set right. If--if any thing were to happen to either of
them, and one were to die while there was enmity, or something like
it, existing between them! and this thought caused the meerschaum to
be laid aside unfinished, and sent Frank striding up, four stairs at a
time, to his bedroom.
He found Barbara sitting in her white dressing-gown, arranging her
hair before the looking-glass. Her face was very white, her eyelids a
little red and puffed, and her lips were tightly pressed together. She
took no notice of the opening of the door, but went calmly on with her
toilet. Frank was a little disconcerted by this; he had calculated on
a tender look of recognition, a few smothered words of explanation,
and a final tableau in each other's arms. But as Barbara, with the
greatest serenity, still appeared completely immersed in the intricate
plaiting evolutions she was performing with a piece of her hair and a
stalwart hair-pin, Frank advanced gently, and standing behind her
chair, touched her shoulder, and said softly, "Darling!"
There was no reply; but the hands occupied in the plaiting manoeuvre
perhaps shook a little.
"My darling," repeated Frank, "won't you notice me?"
"Were you speaking to me?" asked Barbara in an icy voice, and looking
up at him with a calm rigid blank face.
"To whom else should I be speaking? to whom else should I apply that
term?"
"Really I can't say. The last time you spoke to me, you were good
enough to swear; and as I know you pride yourself on your consistency,
I could not imagine you could so soon alter your tone."
"No; but, Barbara dearest, you should not throw that in my teeth; you
know that I was vexed; that I--"
"Vexed, Frank! Vexed! I wonder at you! You accuse me of something
utterly untrue, in language such as I have never listened to before;
and then, as an excuse, you plead that you were vexed!"
"I was foolish, Barbara, headstrong and horrible, and let my
confounded temper get the mastery over me; but then, child, you ought
to forgive me; for all I did was from excess of love for you. If I did
not hang upon every word, every action, of yours, I should be far less
exacting in my affection. You should think of that, Barbara."
His voice was broken as he spoke, and she noticed that the hand which
was upon her chair-back shook palpably.
"You _could_ not have meant what you said in the brougham, Frank,"
said she in a softened tone. "You could not have imagined that I
should have permitted--there, I cannot speak of it!" she exclaimed
abruptly, placing her handkerchief to her swimming eyes.
"No, my darling, I will not. I could not--I never--of course--fool
that I am!" and then incoherently, but satisfactorily, the question
was dismissed.
Dismissed temporarily, but by no means forgotten, by no means laid
aside by either of them. Captain Lyster called the next day while
Frank was at the office, eager to see whether Mrs. Churchill had
repented of the task she had undertaken in counselling and warning
Alice Schröder; and Barbara told her husband on his return of the
visit she had had, and mentioned it with eyes which a desire not to
look conscious rendered somewhat defiant, and with cheeks which
flushed simply because it was the last thing they ought to have done.
Heaven knows Barbara Churchill had nothing to be ashamed of in being
visited by Captain Lyster. She never had the smallest sign of a
feeling stronger than friendship for him, and yet she felt somewhat
guilty, as she acknowledged to herself that his visit had given her
very great pleasure. The truth was that the garden-party at Uplands
had completely upset the current of Barbara's life. When, in the first
wild passion of her love for him who became her husband, she had
willingly forfeited all that had hitherto been the pleasure of her
life,--the luxury and admiration in which she had been reared, the
pleasant surroundings which had been hers since her cradle,--she had
found something in exchange. She had given up half-a-hundred
friendships, which she knew to be hollow and empty; but she had
consoled herself with one vast love, which she believed to be lasting
and true, and which, after all, was a novelty.
As has been said, Barbara had had her flirtations innumerable, but she
had never known before what love was; and having a very sensitive
organisation, and going in heart and soul for the new passion, she had
not in any great degree, at all events felt the alteration in her
position. Although every thing was different and inferior, every thing
was in some degree connected with him, who was paramount in her idea
to any thing she had ever known. She might feel the dulness of the
neighbourhood, the smallness of the house, the difference in the
society and in her own occupations and amusements; but all these were
part and parcel of that sun of her existence--her husband; that great
luminary, in whose brilliant rays all little gloom-spots were
swallowed up and merged. Even when the glamour died away, and the
blacknesses stood out in bold relief, she had been so dazed by the
brightness, and, owing to the thorough change, the events of her past
life seemed so far away, as to awaken but very little remorse or
regret. She was beginning to bear with something like patience the
prosiness of her mother-in-law, the spiteful criticisms of Mrs.
Harding, the hideous vulgarity of some of her other neighbours. But
the visit to Uplands came upon her as a terrific shock. Once more
mixing in her old society, hearing the fashionable jargon to which she
had been accustomed from her youth up; meeting those who had always
looked up to her as their superior in beauty, and consequently in
marketable value; listening to soft compliments; seeing her wishes,
ever so slightly hinted, obeyed with alacrity; breathing once more
that atmosphere in which she was reared, but from which she seemed to
have been long estranged,--Barbara felt more and more like Barbara
Lexden, while Barbara Churchill faded hazily away. The dull, dull
street,--the dead, dead life,--the poverty which prescribed constant
care in the household management,--the dowdy dresses and second-hand
manners of the inhabitants of the quarter,--the daily vexations and
cares and wrong-way rubbings, seemed all to belong to some hideous
dream, while the real existence passed into the former life with a
pleasant addition in the person of Frank. The pleasure was brief
enough, and she woke to all the horrors rendered doubly bitter by the
short renewal of bygone joys. The clock had struck twelve, the
ballroom had vanished, and she was again Cinderella with haunting
memory for her glass-slipper. The prince remained, certainly; but he
was no longer a prince; he had bad tempers, and was peevish and
jealous, and thoroughly mortal. She had returned to the dust and
dreariness of Great Adullam Street, and the rattling cabs, and Mrs.
Churchill in her old black-silk dress, and the Hebrews opposite
smoking their cigars at the open windows in the hot summer evenings.
She could scarcely fancy that there was a world where people dressed
in full muslin, and pink-crape bonnets, or bewitching hats; where
business was unknown, and work never heard of; where there were
perpetual croquet-parties and picnics and horticultural fêtes; where
there were night-drives homeward in open carriages after Richmond
dinners; and where the men talked of something else than when Brown
was going to bring out his poems, or what a slating Smith's novel had
had in the _Scourge_. In that brief respite from her weary life, she
had heard those around her talking of their plans to be carried out on
the then occurring break-up of the season; she had heard girls talk
with rapture of their approaching visits to German Spas and Italian
lakes; she had heard arrangements made for meeting in English
country-houses, where she had formerly been an eagerly sought-for
guest; or at fashionable seaboards, where she had been the reigning
belle. And she came back with the full knowledge that a fortnight's
run to some cockney watering-place, handy of access to London, where
she could live in cheap lodgings and play, a very undistinguished
part, would be all the relaxation she could possibly hope for. And all
this sunk into her soul, and made her wretched and discontented, and
formed the wandering isles of night which dashed the very source and
fount of her day.
It was wrong, undoubtedly. She had chosen her course, and must run it;
as the Mesopotamians would have expressed themselves, she had made her
bed, and must lie upon it. She had her husband to think of, and should
have struggled womanfully to bear up against all these small crosses
and disquietudes for his sake; she should have met her fate with a
brave heart, and striven to prevent his having any suspicion of the
longings and disappointments by which she was racked. Barbara should
have done all this, as we in our different way should have done so
much, which we have resolutely omitted,--paid that bill, for instance;
avoided that woman; not bought that horse; helped that old friend;
denied ourselves that fling in print at Jones. She should have done;
but, like us, she didn't. Her character was any thing but perfect; and
the very pride on which she so much prided herself, and which should
have left her straight, now turned against herself, and, "like a
hedgehog rolled the wrong way," pricked her mercilessly. She did
indeed struggle to contend with the feelings which were conquering
her, and which were the "little low" sensations renewed with tenfold
force; but without success. A dead dull despair, a loathing and
detestation of all the circumstances of her life, a horror of the
people round her, and a wild regret for what had gone before never to
return,--these were the demons which beset Barbara's daily path. And
with them at one time came the first threatenings of another feeling
which would have been more destructive to all chance of present or
future happiness than any other, had not Providence in its mercy
counteracted its effect by a passion, bad indeed, torturing, and
hurtful, but nothing like so deadly as the other. Weighed down by her
real or fancied misery, constantly repining in secret, and comparing
her present with her past life, Barbara might have been tempted to
think of Frank as the agent of her wretchedness, as the primary mover
in the chain of events which had made her exchange Tyburnia for Great
Adullam Street, luxury for comparative poverty, and happiness for
despair; she might have done this, but she became jealous. She noticed
that lately Frank's manner had been strange and preoccupied; that he
was away from home very much more frequently than when they were first
married; that from what she gathered when she heard him talking with
his friends, he evidently sought work which took him out, and on two
or three occasions had gone on country trips in the interest of the
journal--duty which did not fall to his lot, and which he had never
undertaken before. His manner to her, she thought, was certainly very
much changed, and she did not like the alteration. He was courteous
always, and gentle; but he had gradually lost all that petting
fondness which, from its very rarity in a man of his stamp, was so
winning at first; and with his courtesy was mingled a grave sad air,
which Barbara understood to mean reproach, and which galled her
mightily. I do not know that Barbara at first really felt jealous of
her husband: had she examined the foundation of her jealousy and
sifted its causes, there is very little doubt that the natural sense
which she undoubtedly possessed would have shown her that her
suspicions were absurd. But the truth is, she all unwittingly rather
encouraged the passion, as a relief from the monotonous misery of her
life, without a thought of how rapidly it grew, or what proportions it
might eventually assume. It was a change to think differently of
Frank, to take a feverish interest in his proceedings and in the
proceedings of those with whom he was brought into contact; and Frank
himself was surprised to find how the "little low" fits had been
succeeded by a more sprightly demeanour--a demeanour which showed
itself in sharp glances and bitter words.
And Frank, was he happy? In truth, not one whit happier than his wife,
though his wretchedness sprang from a different cause and was shown in
a different way. He felt that he had clutched the great prize, and
found it to be a Dead-Sea apple; that he had reached the turning-point
of his career, passed it, and found the rest of his course all
down-hill; he had played the great stake of his life and lost it; and
henceforward his heart's purse was empty, and he was bankrupt in
affections. It had come upon him, gradually indeed, but with
overwhelming force: at first he had ascribed Barbara's pettishness to
the mere vagaries of a girl, and had looked upon her caprices as
relics of that empire which had been hers so long, and from which she,
naturally enough, was unwilling to part. He had seen, not without
annoyance, indeed, but still without any deep or lasting pang, that
there was an uncomfortable feeling, based either upon rivalry or some
other passion equally unintelligible to him, between his wife and his
mother; but he had hoped this would pass away. He had noticed that his
old friends, though they spoke with warm admiration of Barbara's
beauty, deemed to shirk any question of liking or being pleased with
her; and that, let them meet her however often, she scarcely seemed to
make any progress in their regard; but he thought this was as much
their fault as hers, and that the estrangement would wear off. It was
not until his mother had dropped her hint as to the frequency of
Captain Lyster's visits, that Frank's mind began to be seriously
disturbed; it was not until the scene at Uplands, of which he had been
an unwilling spectator, and the subsequent scene with Barbara in the
brougham, that he began to feel that his marriage had been a horrible
mistake. Then all Barbara's "low" fits, all her silence, all the tears
which he could see constantly welling up into her eyes, and kept back
only by a struggle as palpable as the tears themselves; then the
complaints of dulness and monotony--all poor Barbara's shortcomings,
indeed, and they were not a few--were ascribed to one source. She had
known this man in former days; he was of her society and set, and had
probably made love to her, as had hundreds before; and Frank ground
his teeth as he thought how Barbara's reputation as a flirt, and her
attractive qualities as a coquette, had been kindly mentioned to him
by more than one of her old friends. Some quarrel had probably
occurred between them; during which he Frank had crossed her path, had
fallen at her feet,--dazed idiot that he was!--and she had raised him
up, and out of pique had married him. That was the story, Frank could
swear to it! he turned it over and over in his mind until he believed
it implicitly, and conjured up the different scenes and passages,
which made his blood boil and sent him, with set teeth and scowling
brow, stamping through the long-echoing Mesopotamian squares, to the
intense wonder of the policeman and the few passers-by in those dreary
thoroughfares. Only when he was quite alone, however, did he in the
least give way to his emotions. When he was at home--where he and
Barbara would now sit for hours without exchanging a word, and where
the occasional presence of a third person rendered matters more
horrible, compelling them to put on a ghastly semblance of
affectionate familiarity--when he was at home, or down at the
_Statesman_ Office, where he could be thoroughly natural, he was
moody, stern, and silent. His manner had lost that round jollity which
had always characterised it, and his appearance was beginning to
change: he was thinner; there were silver lines in the brown hair, and
two or three deep lines round the eyes.
Of course his friends noticed all this, as friends notice every thing.
Madly and blindly people go through life, imagining that their
thoughts and actions are--some of them, at least--known but to
themselves alone; whereas all of them--all such, at least, as they
would prefer keeping secret--are public property, and as thoroughly
patent as if they had been proclaimed from the market-place cross. You
may go on in London living for years next door to a neighbour whose
name you are unacquainted with, and whom you have never seen; but make
him an acquaintance, give him some interest in you, and without your
in the least suspecting it, he will find out the whole story of your
life, will know all about the young lady with the fair hair in
Wiltshire, the hundred pounds borrowed from Robinson, the
disappointment at Uncle Prendergast's will--all the little things, in
fact, which you thought were buried in your own bosom; and will sit
down opposite you at table with an innocent ingenuous face, as though
your affairs were the very last things with which he would trouble
himself. We all do this, day by day, with the noblest hypocrisy, and
receive from our dear intimate statements of facts which we know to be
false, and warpings of statements which we know to be perverted, with
"Indeeds!" and "Reallys?" and head-noddings of outward acquiescence
and mocking incredulity in our hearts. Barbara Churchill had been the
one grand subject of conversation for the Mesopotamian gossips ever
since her marriage: they had lived upon her, and found that she
improved in flavour. Her appearance, her dress, her manners; what they
were pleased to term her "stand-offishness;" her shortcomings as a
housekeeper; her ignorance in the matter of mending under-linen; her
novel-reading and piano-playing--all these had been toothsome morsels,
far more enjoyable than the heavy pies, the thick chops, and the
sardines which figured in that horrible Mesopotamian meal known as "a
thick tea;" and had been picked to the very bone. And then, when it
began to be whispered about--as it very soon did--that there were
dissensions in the Churchill camp, that all did not go as smoothly as
it should, and that, in fact, quarrels were rife--then came the
crowning delight of the banquet, and the female portion of the
Great-Adullam-Street community was nearly delirious with excitement.
Although old Mrs. Churchill, from her kind-heartedness and simplicity,
had always been a great favourite with her neighbours, she had no idea
of the extent of her popularity until this period. Her little rooms
were literally beset with female friends; and she had invitations to
tea-parties three-deep. To these invitations--to as many of them, at
least, as was possible--she invariably responded. By nature the old
lady hated the character of a gossip, and would have been highly
indignant had she been charged with any propensity for chattering; but
easily impressible by those with whom she was brought into contact,
she had acquired a little of the prevalent failing of the region, and
moreover, she thought it her duty to tell all she knew about the then
favourite subject, in order, as she phrased it, "that poor Frank's
position might be set right." But if poor Frank's position was
properly looked after, it must be acknowledged that poor Barbara
received her meed of popular disapprobation. Not that her
mother-in-law ever said one direct word of condemnation; old Mrs.
Churchill was far too good a Christian willingly to start or give
currency to harsh criticism, more especially on one so closely allied
to her. But, it was very difficult to absolve her son from blame
without shifting the onus of the avowed quarrel on to the shoulders of
her daughter-in-law; and when the ladies surrounding the tea-table,
groaning over "poor Mr. Churchill's" domestic woes, shook their
cap-strings in virtuous indignation at her who had caused them, the
old lady made but a feeble protest, which speedily closed in a string
of doleful ejaculations. In the minds of the members of this
Mesopotamian Vehmgericht, of which Mrs. Harding might be considered
president, Barbara stood fully convicted of the charge which they had
themselves brought against her. Her indolence, her carelessness, her
"fal-lal ways," her pride and squeamishness had brought--only rather
sooner than was expected--their natural result; and "isn't it better,
my dear, to have a little less good looks and a little less fondness
for jingling the piano and reading trashy novels, and keep a tidy
house over your head and live happily with your husband?"
The stories of all that passed in Churchill's house, collected with
care from old Mrs. Churchill and her servant Lucy,--whose habitual
puritanical taciturnity was melted by the course of events, and who
gave way to that hatred against Barbara which she had felt from the
first moment of seeing her,--and duly dressed, illustrated, and
annotated by Mrs. Harding, who had a special talent in that way, of
course before long reached Mr. Harding's ears.
It is difficult to explain how that good fellow was affected by the
news. He had the warmest personal regard for Frank, loving him with
something of paternal fondness; he had always impressed him with the
propriety of marriage, and had looked forward with real anxiety to the
time when he should see his friend settled for life. Not until then,
he thought, would those talents which he knew Frank possessed enable
him to take his proper position in the world: what he did now was well
enough; but it was merely the evanescent sparkle of his genius.
Soberly settled down with a woman worthy of him, the real products of
his intellect and his reading would come forth, and he would step into
the first rank of the men of his time. And now it had all come to
this! Frank was married; but he had made a wrong selection, and was a
moody, discontented, blighted man. The aspect of affairs was horrible;
and when told of their real condition by his wife, George Harding
determined that he would exercise his prerogative of friend, and speak
to Churchill on the subject.
Accordingly the next day when he saw Frank at the usual consultation
at the office, Harding waited until the other man had left the room,
and then, placing his hand affectionately on his friend's shoulder,
said: "I want two minutes with you, Frank."
"Two hours, if you like, Harding; it's all the same to me," replied
Churchill wearily.
"I want you to tell me what ails you,--what has worked such a complete
change in you, physically and morally; or rather, I don't want you to
tell me, for I know."
Churchill looked up defiantly with flushed cheeks, as he exclaimed,
"What do you know? are my private affairs topics for the tittle-tattle
of--there, God help me! I'm weak as water. Now I want to quarrel with
my best friend!"
"No, you don't, old man; and you would get no quarrel out of me, if
you wished it ever so much. But I can't bear this any longer; I can't
bear to see you losing your health and your spirits; and wearing
yourself out day by day as you are, without coming to the rescue. Let
us look the matter boldly in the face at once. You're--you're not
quite happy at home, Frank, eh?"
"Happy!" he echoed, with a strange hollow laugh; "no, not entirely
perhaps."
"Well, that's a bad thing; but it's curable. At all events, giving way
to moping and misery won't help it. Many men have begun their married
life in wretchedness, and emerged, when they least expected it, into
sunshine. Here are two young people who have not known each other
above a couple of months, both of whom have very possibly been spoiled
beforehand, and they arrive each with their own particular stock of
whims and fancies, which they declare shall be carried out by the
other. It takes time to rub down all the angles and points, and to
provide for the regular working of the machinery; and it is never done
by a jump. You've fine material to work upon too; if Mrs. Churchill
were vulgar or uneducated, or did not care for you, you would have
great difficulties to contend with. But as she is exactly the reverse
of all this, she ought to be easily managed. Don't you understand that
in these matters one or the other must have the upperhand? and that
one should be the husband! The supremacy once asserted, all works
well; not until then, and generally the struggle, though sharp, is
very short. Every thing is wrong, and the whole machine is out of
gear. You've let her have her own way too much, my friend. You must
tighten the curb and see the result."
"If you were a horseman, Harding," said Frank with a dreary smile,
"you would know that tightening the curb sometimes produces the worst
of rebellious vices--rearing!"
"Oh, no fear of that; no fear of that. Try it! You really must do
something, Frank; I can't bear to see you giving way like this. You
must assert yourself, my good fellow, and at once; for though it may
be bad now, it will be ten times worse hereafter, and you'll bitterly
rue not having taken my advice."
And George Harding went home and told, his wife what he had done, and
assured her that she would find matters speedily set to rights in
Great Adullam Street now.
And Frank Churchill walked home, pondering on the advice he had just
received and finally determining within himself to adopt it. He
supposed he had been weak and wanting in proper self-respect. Harding
was always the reflex of his wife's sentiments, and doubtless that
whole set of wretched tabbies had been pitying him as a poor
spiritless creature. He would take Harding's advice and bring the
matter to an issue at once.
He went into his little study and had just seated himself at his desk
to commence his work when Barbara entered the room. She was dressed in
her bonnet and shawl; her eyes were swollen and there were traces of
recent tears still on her cheeks; the muscles round her mouth were
working visibly, and her whole frame was quivering with excitement. As
she closed the door behind her, she seemed to control herself with one
great effort, then walking straight to the desk she said, in a broken
and trembling voice, "I want you to answer me a question."
"Barbara!" said Frank, whose intended firmness had all melted away
before her haggard appearance, "Barbara!" and he rose and put out his
hand to draw her to him.
"Don't touch me!" she screamed, starting back. "Don't lay one finger
upon me until until you have answered my question. This morning you
left this envelope on the dressing-table; tell me who is the writer
and what were the contents."
She tossed an envelope on to the desk as she spoke, and leant with one
hand against the wall.
"That envelope," said Frank, speaking very slowly, "is mine. I utterly
deny your right to ask me any thing about it; I utterly refuse to
satisfy your curiosity."
"Curiosity! it is not that; God knows it is not that feeling merely
that prompts me: This is the second time you have, to my knowledge,
received letters in that writing. The first time was at Bissett, when
you left suddenly, immediately after its receipt. I suspected then,
but had no right to ask; now I have the right, and I demand to know!"
"I can only repeat what I said before: I most positively decline to
tell you."
"Beware, Frank! You ought to know me by this time; but you don't. If
you don't satisfy me on this point, I leave you for ever."
"You have your answer," said Frank; "now let me get to my work."
"You still refuse?"
"You heard what I said."
She drew herself up and left the room; the next minute he heard the
street-door shut, and, running to the dining-room window, saw her hail
a cab and get into it.
"There's the first lesson, at all events," said he to himself. "When
she comes back to dinner, she will be cooler, and more amenable to
reason."
He finished his work, and walked down with it to the _Statesman_
Office. On his return he found a commissionaire in the hall talking to
his servant. He asked the latter where her mistress was, but the girl
said she had not come in, at the same time handing him a letter. It
was very brief; it merely said:
"You have decided; and henceforth you and I never meet again. Mrs.
Schröder, with whom I am staying, will send her maid for a box which I
have left ready packed. I hope you may be more happy with your
correspondent, and in your return to your old life, than you have been
with B. C."
As Frank Churchill read this, the lines wavered before his eyes, and
he reeled against the wall.