"WE KISSED AGAIN WITH TEARS."
As Frank Churchill advanced into the dining-room in the fading light,
he saw Barbara standing by the mantelpiece. Her face was turned
towards him, but her eyes were dropped to the ground. She did not
raise them as her husband entered, but remained in the same attitude,
while he stopped short as the butler closed the door behind him. Frank
Churchill was not entirely taken by surprise; he knew that his wife
had been staying with her friend Mrs. Schröder, and this fact flashed
across him when he first received Kate Mellon's summons: but he
thought that she might have left the house; that she might have gone
probably to her aunt Miss Lexden--at all events, that there was no
earthly reason to prevent him from obeying that summons, and going to
one who had always understood that she had a claim upon him. If his
wife were there, it was not likely that he would come across her. She
had now been absent some weeks from her home, and during that time she
had not made the slightest sign, had not shown the least contrition,
the least desire for a reconciliation; had not made the smallest
advance in any one shape or way; consequently, she would be as opposed
to any interview as he could be, and would take care to prevent it. As
opposed as he could be? Yes; that was giving it a very definite range;
he felt that he could trust himself now under any influence. All that
had been ductile within him had gradually been growing hard and rigid;
all his love and tenderness, his devotion to and pride in his wife had
gradually died out; his very nature seemed to have changed: where he
had been trusting, he had become sceptical, where he had been hopeful,
he had become doubtful; where he had been generous, he had become
cynical. All his good aspirations, his domestic virtues, seemed to
have deserted him. What his mother had fondly hoped, when the
separation between husband and wife came,--that her son would be
restored to her as he was before his marriage,--never had been
realised. For the first few days, fearing the gossip of the world, he
came home regularly to the house in Great Adullam Street, where the
old lady had been reinstalled; dined, and remained at home during the
evening, until he went down to see the proof of his article at the
_Statesman_ office. But while at home, he was any thing but his old
self. In the bygone days he had been full of chat and rattle, keeping
his mother alive to all the current gossip of the day, talking to her
of new books, new men, new opinions. Now he sat moody and silent over
the dinner-table--moody and silent over his meerschaum-pipe after
dinner over the fire, resting his chin on his hand, dreaming vaguely
of the past, vaguely of the future. Then, after a little time, he
began to tire of the sameness, to want excitement and variety, and he
commenced to dine at the Retrenchment night after night, sitting long
over his wine in the coffee-room, then going up and sitting in the
smoke-room until late hours of the night. He never joined tables with
any one at dinner; he never gave or accepted any further courtesy with
his friends than the interchange of a short nod; but occasionally at
night he would launch out into conversation in the smoke-room, where
he began to gain some renown as a sayer of harsh sayings and bitter
jests.
Yes, this was what remained of the genial, kind-hearted, easy-going
Frank Churchill. His friends were in despair. His mother, poor old
lady, felt that the state of things now was infinitely worse than when
Barbara was in the home; for then, though she only saw her son
occasionally, she believed him to be happy; but now she scarcely ever
saw him at all, and knew him to be thoroughly wretched. She had no
satisfaction in keeping house for him; there was no use in ordering
dinner which he did not eat; in "tidying" a house which he did not
look at; in hunting up and hustling into order servants who might have
been as servile as Eastern slaves, or as insolent as American helps,
for all their master cared. The old lady's occupation was gone, and
she knew it; she felt even more than ever that her position was lost,
that she could not hope to supply the place of her who was absent now,
however well she and her son might have got on before his marriage;
and she was proportionably miserable and disappointed. George Harding
too was greatly annoyed at Frank's conduct. His loyal soul allowed
that his friend had been hardly dealt by; but he contended boldly that
since Barbara's first false step, Frank had been entirely in the
wrong. He contended that the husband should have gone to seek his
erring wife, and should have endeavoured, by every means in his power,
to bring her back to his home. When you talked of pride and that sort
of thing to George Harding in a matter of this kind, he snapped his
fingers loudly and said, "stuff!" There was no hint at any crime, at
even any lightness of conduct, was there? Well then, there was but one
course to pursue. When Frank distinctly refused to follow this advice,
Harding shrugged his shoulders and left him to himself; but when he
saw the dreary, vapid, aimless life that his friend was pursuing, the
change that had come over him in every way, he prayed for an
opportunity of once more taking him to task in an affectionate and
friendly spirit. This opportunity had not been given, and Harding
could find no chance of fault-finding in his friend's work, which,
though horribly bitter and slashing, was cleverer than ever.
The noise of the closing door rang drearily through the room, and
Barbara keeping silence, Churchill felt it incumbent on him to speak.
His throat was quite dry, his lips parched and quivering; but he made
an effort, and the words came out. "You sent for me?" he said.
"I did," replied Barbara, still keeping her head bent and her eyes
downcast: "I wished to speak with you."
"I am here," said Churchill coldly.
"I wished to tell you that--that I have learned a bitter lesson. I
wished to tell you that, only to-night, only within the last few
minutes, I have discovered that I have been deceived in--in certain
matters that have passed between us--that I have done you--done you
wrong."
Churchill merely bowed his head.
"I was present in the next room when what has just passed there took
place. I was present, and I heard every word. It was by no chance, by
no accident, I heard it; I was there intentionally and for the
purpose. When that poor girl now lying there sent for you, I felt
assured that I should gain the key to that mystery which ruined our
married happiness; I felt assured that I should arrive at a solution
of that mystery; and now it is solved. You, who know my pride, may
judge what fearful interest that question must have had for me when I
descended to such means to gain my ends."
Churchill bowed again, but said not a word.
"I have heard it," continued Barbara--"heard the story from first to
last. That poor stricken creature lying there, on what we both know to
be her deathbed, is ignorant even of my name far more of my
relationship to you. From her lips I stand convicted of my mistake;
from her lips I learn that I have done you an injustice. I asked you
to come in here that I might acknowledge this to you." For the first
time during the interview, she raised her eyes; they met those of her
husband, which were cold and pitiless.
"You are very good; but don't you think your admission comes rather
late? Pardon me one minute,"--Barbara had made a sign as though about
to speak,--"I'll not detain you more than one minute. I wooed you as
humbly as any rightminded man could, more humbly than some would think
fit and proper; but let that pass. Before I asked you to share my
life, I showed you plainly what that life was; I did not withhold one
jot of its difficulties, its restrictions, its poverty, if you will. I
pointed out to you plainly and unsparingly the sacrifices you would
have to make, certain luxuries--little perhaps in themselves, but
difficult to do without, from constant use--which you would have to
give up. I put before you what I knew would prove (as it has proved)
the fact, that, if you married me, the set of people amongst whom you
had always lived would consider you had demeaned yourself, and would
give you up. I pointed all this plainly out to you,--did I not?"
"You did."
"And you, having heard it all, and weighed it as much as women with
any thing like heart in them do weigh such matters, agreed to link
your lot with mine. Good. We married, and I brought you to your home;
not a brilliant home by any means, not a fairy bower likely to catch
the fancy of a young girl, but still, I make bold to say, a
comfortable enough home, and one out of which, mind you, my
mother--one of the common-minded, commonplace people so sneered at by
your superior race--removed, of her own free will, in order that you
might be its sole mistress. You follow me?" he asked, for her head had
drooped again and he could not see her face.
She murmured some indistinct answer, and as he looked across he
thought he saw the trace of tears upon her cheeks.
"What was the result?" he continued. "From that time out, you began to
change. There were great allowances to be made for you, I grant. The
place was dull, the house small, the furniture meagre; the persons
amongst whom you were thrown strange and entirely different from any
you had previously mixed with. But the house was your own; the
furniture sufficient for our wants; the people anxious to receive you
kindly and hospitably, to make you feel welcome, to do any thing for
you for my sake. My mother, in some respects a peculiar woman, came
out of the semi-seclusion in which she had lived for years, to show
her regard for you; she wanted you to share in that wealth of
affection which she lavished on me; she wanted you to be as much her
daughter as I was her son. Did you respond to this in any way? No. Did
you try to content yourself with the lot which you had accepted? No.
Did you, knowing full well how all were striving for you, endeavour to
accommodate yourself to, and make the best of, circumstances? No, no,
no! You sit moping and indolent in your house, leaving things to go on
as they best can; nursing your grief and disappointment and rage until
you see every thing through a distorted medium; you alienate my
friends by your undisguised contempt; you affront my mother by openly
spurning her proffered affection. All this you do, wilfully or
foolishly ignoring the fact that in each and every act you inflict a
stab on me--on me, slaving for you, loving you, adoring you!"
"Oh, Frank, Frank!"
"Yet one minute, if you please; I will not detain you longer; I should
never have sought this opportunity,"--Barbara winced,--"but having it,
I must in self defence avail myself of it to the utmost. Not merely do
you pursue the line of conduct I have just described, but you forget
yourself and annoy me in a far greater degree. I am told of your
constantly receiving visits from a gentleman during the hours of my
absence from home. I mention this mildly, and beg you to hint to him
to call at some other time. You are offended at this; and after a
discussion, I acknowledge I may have been hasty, and the subject is
dropped. I take you to a party where you meet some of your old
friends; your spirits revive; you are more like your old self than you
have been since your marriage; and you walk off; away from all the
rest of the party, with this same gentleman, with whom I myself see
you in singularly earnest conversation. I again speak to you on this
point; you deny that I have any occasion for complaint, and I again
give way. And now what return do you make me for my kindness, my
trust, my confidence? You accuse me of receiving letters, which as
your husband I should not receive: and you demand to know the purport
of the letters, and the name of the writer. I give a general denial to
your suspicions; but as to telling you what you require, my pride--"
"Oh, even you have pride, then?" said Barbara, with a half-sneer.
"Proper pride! my honour, if you will,--for my honour was pledged
in the matter--forbade it. Then, acting on a wild and miserable
impulse,--without one thought or care for me, for yourself, for our
name and reputation,--you took a step which has brought misery on my
life. You left my house, your home,--left it and left me to be the
talk, the object of the gossip, and the pity of all who heard the
wretched story. Not content with that, you come to this house, and I
am given to understand that, since you have been here, you have been
constantly visited by the man I have before spoken of--Captain
Lyster!"
No drooping head now! Barbara is standing erect as a dart. Her cheeks
dead white, her lips compressed, her eyes flaming fire.
"You have been told lies!" she said; "lies which, were it not to cure
your madness, and to show you how weak you are, and how mercilessly
you have been played upon, I would scorn to answer! So these dear
delightful people have started that story about me, have they; have
tried to degrade me in my husband's eyes by such a miserable
concoction as that; and my husband has believed them. It is only on a
par with the rest of the generous sympathy they have shown me, and
like all the rest of their wretched machinations, it has some slight
shadow of a foundation. Captain Lyster _has_ been here; has been here
frequently,--oh, you need not raise your eyebrows,--it was not to see
me he came. I will tell you, in self-defence, what I would not have
mentioned otherwise. Ever since Mrs. Schröder's trouble, Captain
Lyster has been her kindest and most active friend. Before she was
married he took the greatest interest in her; and it was only her
father's incontrovertible desire that she should marry as she did,
that prevented him from proposing for her. More; when you saw us
walking together at that garden-party at Uplands, it was of Alice he
was speaking; it was to tell me of how her reputation had been
imperilled by false and cowardly reports, that he had sought me out;
and it was to ask my advice and assistance, to enlist me on her side,
that he was so urgent."
"How can I be sure of this?"
"How can you be sure of it! Did I ever tell you a falsehood in my
life? You know perfectly well,--you would know, at least, if you had
not been blinded by ridiculous jealousy, springing from suspicions
artfully sown,--that I am incapable of deceiving you in any way."
"What brought Captain. Lyster so frequently to my house, in the early
days,--before the garden-party at Uplands, I mean,--and why did he
always come when I was away?"
"Shall I tell you what I believe brought Captain Lyster so frequently
to your house, Frank Churchill? I did not intend to mention it; I
intended to have spared you. Mind you, he never said as much to
me,--he is too true and too honourable a gentleman to cast a slur on
any one; but I honestly believe that Captain Lyster's visits to me
were paid through sheer pity."
"Pity!"
"Ay, pity! He is a keen observer, a shrewd man of the world, for all
his vapidity and his drawl; and I firmly believe that he pitied me
from his soul. He had known me in other days, recollect; he had seen
me when--well, there is no vanity in saying it; you know it as well as
I do--when I was thought and made much of; when the world was to me a
very light and pleasant place, in which I moved about as one of the
favoured ones; when I did not know what it was to be checked or
thwarted, and when all paths were made smooth for me. He found me
solitary, dull, wretched; in a dreary quarter of the town, which was
utterly unknown to me; my only acquaintance, people with whom I had
not one single thing in common,--people looking with horror on all I
had been accustomed to enjoy, and enjoying all I had heartily
detested. He found me _triste_ and low; he thought I was becoming
dejected and unhappy; not that I ever told him so, of course,--my
pride is as great as his; but he is, as I have said, no fool, and he
found it out. What did he do? In the most delicate manner possible, he
tried to rouse me, and to show me what source of happiness I had in my
new position and in your love. He was the only link between my old and
my new life; the only person I used to see, who went among the people
with whom I had formerly lived. Was it very extraordinary for a girl
to ask news of those with whom the whole of her life had been spent? I
used to ask Captain Lyster for such news; and he would give it me,
always in the gentlest and most delicate manner; telling me, of
course, of gaieties that had taken place, but pointing out how silly
they were, and how happy the most fêted girls at them would be to
settle down into a calm happy love, such as--such as he thought I
possessed."
"Did he say all this?"
"He did; and more--much more. Since I have been here, Alice Schröder
has told me that on several occasions when your name has been freely
commented upon, Captain Lyster has defended you with the utmost
warmth, and with a spirit which one can scarcely imagine so naturally
indolent a man to be capable of exercising. More than this: when the
unhappy story of our separation became public scandal, I, having
hitherto refrained from speaking to Captain Lyster about it, but
knowing that he must now have heard all, was about one day to ask his
advice. He stopped me at once. 'Pardon me, my dear Mrs. Churchill,' he
said; 'this is a topic on which I cannot and must not enter. The time
will come when--when it will be all happily settled again; and you
would then very much regret having discussed the subject with me. If
it should ever be my luck to be married, and I had--as undoubtedly I
should have--a dispute with my wife, I would lock the door until we
had settled it, and returned to our usual equable state. Not one
living soul should ever be able to jeer me about a matrimonial
quarrel.'"
"He was right; God knows he was right!" said Churchill, bitterly.
"And yet this is the man whom you have chosen to misrepresent in such
a matter. Believe me, that people unfortunately situated as we are,
could have found very few friends with the kind heart, the tact, and
delicacy of Captain Lyster."
And then Barbara, heated and fatigued with her defence, stopped, and
her head drooped again, and she was silent. There was an awkward
pause; then Churchill said,
"You sent for me to--"
"As I have told you--to confess that I had heard the statement made in
the next room, and to admit that I was in error in imagining that
those letters came from an improper source."
Now was Frank Churchill's time. One kind word from him, and the misery
of his life was at an end. But with that strange perversity which not
unfrequently is a characteristic of good and clever men, he fell into
the snare of saying and doing exactly what he should not.
"And you are prepared to come home--" he commenced, in a hard voice.
"Not if invited in that tone," broke in Barbara abruptly.
"To come home," continued Churchill, not noticing the
interruption,--"to come home confessing that you were entirely in the
wrong, and that you had no shadow of excuse for leaving as you did.
To come home--"
"Stop, Frank!" burst out Barbara, unable any longer to control
herself; "this is not the way to win a person of my temperament to
agree to any measures which you may propose. To come home, confessing
this and acknowledging that,--why, you know perfectly that you
yourself were equally to blame in the preposterous jealousy which you
showed of Captain Lyster! I will confess and acknowledge nothing. I
will come home to you as your wife,--to be the first in your
regard,--to devote myself to you; but I will make no pledges as to
accepting other people's interference, or submitting to--"
"In fact," said Frank, "as to being any thing different from what you
were. Now that will not do. Much as--as I may have loved you"--his
voice broke here--"I would sooner live away from you than undergo the
torture of those last few weeks at home again. It would be better for
us both that--well, I will not say more about it. God's will be done!
One thing, I shall be able to make you now some definite allowance, on
which you can live comfortably without being a burden on your
relatives or friends. Sir Marmaduke Wentworth is dead; and I
understand from his lawyer that I am a legatee, though to what extent
I do not yet know. I had hoped that--"
He was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Presently the door
opened, and the nurse put in her head, with an alarmed expression of
face. "Come, come!" said she; "quickly! both of you!" and withdrew.
Frank stopped, and motioned Barbara to pass before him.
"Oh, no!" she exclaimed wildly, clasping her hands and looking
piteously into his face; "not into the presence of Death!--we cannot
go into the presence of Death with these wild words on our lips, this
wicked rage at our hearts! Frank, Frank, my darling! fancy if either
of us were summoned while feeling so to each other. It is a horrible
madness, this; a wild inexplicable torture; but let it end--oh, let it
end! I will pray for forgiveness; I will be humble; I will do all you
wish! Oh, Frank, Frank, take me once more to yourself!"
His strong arms are round her once again; once more her head is
pillowed on his breast; while between his sobs he says, "Forgive you,
my darling! Oh, ought not I also to implore your forgiveness!"