|For several days after that meeting, it seemed to Mrs. Russell that
Edith was sickening for a fever. Edith herself was afraid that the
terrible trial through which she had passed, was likely to have serious
results. In her agony, the girl prayed to die; but for her there was
no such mercy. At the end of a few days the ominous symptoms had passed
away, and Edith was almost herself again. No doctor had been sent for.
Mrs. Russell in her anxiety, was eager for him to see her niece; but
Edith, driven almost distracted at the thought, had refused so-decidedly
to see him that her Aunt had yielded, and had promised to put off
sending to him for a few days. At the end of a few days Edith was
better, so no message was sent, and the doctor never came.
So the time wore on. Winter had fairly set in, and everybody in the
village was making preparations for Christmas, Mrs. Russell following
the fashion of all the rest. From morning till night she was herself
employed with the maid in the kitchen, chopping up mincemeat, and
preparing various other dainties for Christmas fare. But her kindly
face was troubled; she was always thinking of Edith, who was so sadly
changed. The illness which had been so much dreaded, had passed away,
it is true, but something almost as pitiable had been left in its
place. The girl looked pale and worn, and old before her time. She never
crossed the threshold, but sat at-home day after day, shivering over the
fire, and when questioned by her aunt, she merely said--
“I don’t feel very well. But don’t notice me, aunt dear; go on with your
preparations for Christmas. I like to think that you will make the house
bright, for I am sure I shall be better, so much better, when Christmas
comes.”
Mrs. Russell, according to her usual custom, wanted to have company,
since it was dull, she said, for two lonely: women to spend their
Christmas together. So she proposed to her niece that she should write
to Mrs. Hetherington, asking her to come, with her son, and eat her
Christmas dinner at the cottage. But this idea was opposed by Edith as
vehemently as the doctor’s visit had been; and in this case, as in the
other, the aunt had yielded.
“Well, Edith, shall I ask them for the New Year?” she asked; and the
girl, eagerly seizing the respite, had answered--
“Yes, aunt; for the New Year. For this once, you and I will spend our
Christmas alone.”
So the time passed on, until one morning Edith opened her eyes, and lay
listening to the Christmas bells.
“Peace on earth, good will towards men!”
That was the message they were chiming forth; that was the doctrine
_he_ must preach to-day. _He_, through whose cruelty she, who only
last Christmas had been a happy, contented girl, now lay there a very
sorrowful, weary woman.
Would he think of her when he stood in his pulpit, gazing into the
enraptured faces of his flock, and preaching to them the gospel of faith
and love? Would he think for one moment of this poor girl, whom he had
made an outcast?
When mother and daughter sat at breakfast, Edith announced her
determination to stay at home as usual; so Mrs. Russell went alone
through the snow to hear the vicar’s sermon. She was sorry Edith was not
with her, she said to herself again and again, as she sat in the church,
listening in rapt attention to the benevolent gospel which Mr. Santley
preached. He had never been known to have spoken so well before, and
when he had finished, one half of the congregation had been reduced to
tears.
Mrs. Russell told Edith all about it at dinner, and again expressed
her sorrow that Edith had not been there to hear. To this the girl said
nothing, but there passed over her face a look it was well the aunt did
not see.
Thus the day passed--a day so full of joy to some, so full of sadness
to others. Well, joy and sadness were ended. Mrs. Russell, following her
usual custom, reached down the old family Bible, and read from it; then,
taking her niece’s hand in hers, she knelt down to say a prayer. When
they rose from their knees, Edith put her arms round her aunt’s neck,
and kissed her fondly.
“Aunt dear,” she said, “I have often been a great trouble to you--I
have often caused you disappointment and a deal of unnecessary pain;
but tonight, on Christmas night, when we should all forgive and love one
another, you will tell me, will you not, that you forgive me?”
With strange, wondering eyes, the old lady looked at her niece, so pale
and sadly changed; then she kissed her, as she said--
“My darling, what there is to forgive I forgive. We cannot all do as we
ought, Edith--we are poor creatures at the best of times--but you are a
good girl, Edith; and perhaps, after all, things have shaped themselves
for the best.”
The old lady, all unconscious of the real state of things, was
thinking of the collapse of the pet scheme she had had of making Walter
Hetherington her son.
“Dear aunt,” said Edith, fondly, “it was impossible.”
“Yes, yes; I know that now, my dear: and perhaps, after all, as I said
before, it is for the best. There, don’t think of it again to-night,
dear, but go to bed and rest!”
So Edith went to her room; and while the rest of the household were
falling into blessed, tranquil slumber, she sat, dressed as she was,
upon the bed and stared vacantly before her. She did not weep; her time
for that, had passed away, even as the greatness of her sorrow grew.
Her face was fixed and determined; her heart seemed to-have hardened
to stone. For days and days she had waited for she knew not what; but
a vague kind of hopefulness, had taken possession of her heart, and
she had allowed it to remain. Perhaps, during those terrible days of
agonizing suspense, she had thought that she might have received some
word or sign from him. It had been a vague, almost a hopeless, hope;
nevertheless, it had been that one spark which had kept life within her.
But now that hope was gone: he had made no sign. And with the knowledge
that she could no longer conceal her shame, came also the assurance that
the man for whose sake she had sinned, had pitilessly abandoned her.
Edith, sitting at home by the fire that day, had thought over all this,
while her aunt had been at church listening to the vicar’s touching
sermon; and, after having forced herself to accept and acknowledge the
truth, she had finally decided what she must do. She had decided; it
but remained for her to act. She had determined to leave her home that
night; to walk whither her wandering footsteps might lead her, and leave
no trace behind.
So, having reached her room, she sat until the house was quiet; then she
rose, and began to make her preparations for departure. She went to
a drawer, and took from it what money still remained there--some
bank-notes and gold--and stitched it firmly in a fold of her dress; then
she put on her hat and warm winter cloak, and stood ready.
The village clocks were striking twelve.
She opened her door and listened. All was still; so she passed quietly
onwards, after securely locking her bedroom door--passed noiselessly
down the stairs, out of the house, and stood in, the darkness alone.
It was a bitter night. The snow lay thick all round her, and the cruel
wind which blew seemed to turn the life-blood in her veins to ice.
Edith stood for a moment, chilled to the heart. She gave one look at
the home she was leaving; then, as if fearing the strength of her own
resolution, she turned and quickly pursued her way.
Whither she went she knew not, nor did she care to know; she only knew
that every step was taking her further and further from her home, and
from the man who had broken her heart. So she walked on quickly, with
her cloak wrapped well about her, and bending her head to shelter her
face from the bitter breath of the wind.
She walked on and on, while the darkness gathered above her and the
snow lay thick all around. Sometimes she sat down to rest, and then the
thought came to her, that perhaps it would be better if she could end
it all; if she could but lie down on the frozen earth, with the snow
wrapped like a mantle around her, and sink to her eternal sleep.
Henceforth there would be no more sorrow and no more pain--The idea
having occurred to her, took possession of her mind, and held to
it tenaciously. “Oh, if she could only die!”--close her eyes in the
darkness, and feel for a moment that blessed peace which had passed
from her for ever! Yes, Edith knew it would be better; though, with the
instinct implanted in all human things, she shrank from death, she knew
that his presence would be-merciful. Henceforth, what would life be to
her--an outcast, a thing to be spoken of with pitiless contempt, to be
hidden for ever from the sight of all her fellow-men? Then she asked
herself, “Would it be a sin to take the life which God had given her,
and yield it up to Him?” No; she believed it would be no sin.
She walked on and on. Then once more, in the bitter anguish of
her heart, she cried on God to be merciful to her. For, weary with
travelling, cold and sick at heart, she cast herself down upon the snow,
and sobbed--
“Oh, if I could only die!”
But death did not come. The snow closed all round her as she lay
fainting and cold; but she did not die. Its icy touch, lying on her
parched lips and brow, revived her. With wild, wandering eyes, she
looked around.
The night was well-nigh spent, and the sky gave tokens of quickly
approaching dawn. As every hour passed on the air grew colder, and now
its touch chilled her to the very bone; she shivered, yet her brow, her
lips, and hands were burning. She tried to think, but could not; even
the events of the past were becoming strangely blurred and dim.
Where was she? She hardly knew; yet she must have wandered many, many
miles from home, since she was footsore, and growing very faint for lack
of food. She listened feverishly, and her ear caught the murmuring of a
running stream.
She rose; but her limbs were feeble, for she staggered and fell again
upon the ground. Then she cried from very weakness, and a sense of utter
helplessness and loneliness.
After a while she rose again. How her hands and lips burned! Her brain
was in wild confusion, and everything about her seemed fading into the
mystery of a dream. Was it coming, that death for which she had prayed?
Suddenly a wild fear seized her. If she fell and lay here on the snow,
she might be recognized by some passing traveller and taken home! That
must not be. She must never be found, and then no one would ever know.
As this new terror seized her, she heard again the rippling of the
stream. It seemed to lure her on. She thrust a handful of snow into her
mouth, and staggered forward. The sweet sound of the running water came
nearer and nearer. She stood now on the banks of the stream--a stream
deep and rapid, flowing between banks now laden with snow. Edith looked
down into the dark, cold water, and thought, “If I lay there, quiet and
cold, no one would ever find me and no one would ever know.”
“Yes, yes; it would be better,” she cried. “The water called me, and I
have come!” And, with a wild sob, she sprang forward, and sank beneath
the swiftly flowing waters of the stream.
When Edith opened her eyes, she found herself lying upon a bed of straw.
She was dressed in dry clothes, sheltered by a canvas roof, warmed by
a fire, and watched by a woman. Her eyes, after having carelessly noted
these things, remained fixed on the face of the woman, for she had
recognized the bold black eyes of Sal Blexley.
Edith remained dumb, but Sal broke the silence with a loud laugh.
“Yes, it’s me, my lady,” she said.
“I said we should meet again, and so we have, you see. I thought it would
come to this.”
“Where am I?” asked Edith, faintly.
“Where are ye? Why, in a gipsy tent, with me and my pals. I was out on
the rampage with my chap, when we saw ye throw yourself in the river. I
got him to fish you out--more dead than alive, I bet--and between us
we brought ye here. There, don’t shrink away, and don’t look afeard.
I ain’t agoin’ to harm ye. Your man’s deserted ye, I reckon. Well, ye
despised me once, ye know, and so did he; but I mean to let ye see that
‘tain’t only gentlefolks and clergy that can do a good turn to them as
wants it.”
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN.
_December 15_.--The first snow fell yesterday. As I write, the air is
still darkened with the falling flakes. From here to the village
is spread a soft white carpet, ankle-deep. I am more than usually
interested in this common phenomenon, as I can tell, by the deep
footprints, exactly who is coming and going. One track interests me
especially--that of a shapely foot, clad in an elegant, tightly fitting
boot. Its holy owner came as far as the lodge gate, no further. To make
certain that I was not mistaken, I inquired of the lodge-keeper, and
found that the clergyman _had_ passed this morning.
As matters stand now, I can arrange everything with coolness and _sang
froid_, for I am really the master of the situation. I hold this man,
as it were, in the hollow of my hand. I know his life, his comings
and goings, his offences against social propriety, against his own
conscience; there is not a step of that poor instrument, his soul, of
which I am not master. Despite all this, he is still absolutely blind to
his danger. He thinks me sleeping sound, when I am wide awake. Imbecile!
Well, I mean to have my revenge, somehow or other; how and when, I have
not exactly determined. I should like to read my satyr such a lesson
as would last him for a lifetime; and of course, without any kind of
_public_ scandal. I have thought once or twice of a way, but it would,
perhaps, be playing with fire to attempt it; nor is it easy to carry out
without my wife’s co-operation.
As for Ellen, she remains restless and bewildered; certain of the man’s
unworthiness, yet fascinated by his pertinacity. She goes to church, as
usual; otherwise, she avoids Santley as much as possible. What would she
say, if I were to tell her all I know? I am afraid, after all, it would
not facilitate her cure; for, strange to say, women love a scoundrel of
the amorous kind.=
```"That we should call these delicate creatures ours,
````And not their ------ sentiments!”
Yes, it is nothing but sentiment, I know. She is as pure as crystal, but
she cannot quite forget that she was once a foolish maid, and this
man an impassioned boy; and he comes to her, moreover, in the shining
vestments of a beautiful, though lying, creed. I shall have to be cruel,
I am afraid, very cruel, before I can quite cure her.... Pshaw! what am
I thinking, writing? Folly, folly! I am trying to survey Ellen Haldane
philosophically, to assume a calmness, though I have it not--though
all the time my spirit is in arms against her. I am jealous, damnably
jealous, that is all.
To talk about the crystal purity of a woman who has a moral _cancer_,
which must kill her if it is not killed! To describe her folly as mere
sentiment, when I know, more than most men, that such sentiment as that
is simple conscience-poisoning! If I did not save her, if I were not by
with my protecting hand, she would assuredly be lost. Well, I shall
cure her, as I said, or kill her in the attempt. Once, when a boy, in
a Parisian hospital, I saw an _ouvreuse_ operated upon, for a tumorous
deposit, which necessitated the excision of the whole of the right
breast. It was before the days of chloroform, and the patient’s agony
was terrible to witness. But she was saved. For the moral cancer also,
the knife may be the only remedy; and it will be, as in the other case,
kill or cure.
Meantime, our domestic life goes on with characteristic monotony. We
have no quarrels, and no confidences. We eat, drink, and sleep like
comfortable wedded people. The greater part of my day is spent among my
books; the greater part of hers in simple domestic duties, in music, in
wanderings about the gardens. She seldom visits in the parish now; but
the poor come to her on stated days, and she is, as ever, charitable. At
least once every Sunday she goes to church.
A sombre, sultry state of the atmosphere, with gathering thunder!
_December_ 20.--I have been reading, to-day, Naquet’s curious pamphlet
on “Divorce,” a subject which is just now greatly exercising our
neighbours across the Channel. This study, combined with that of two
new attempts in Zolaesque (which a French friend has been good enough
to send me), has left me with a certain sense of nausea. Gradually, but
surely, I am afraid, I am losing that fine British faith in the feminine
ideal, which was among the legacies left me by a perfect mother. It
is dawning upon me, at middle age, as it dawns upon a Parisian at
twenty-one, that women are, at best, only the highest, or among the
highest, of _animals_, and that sanitary precautions of the State must
be taken--to keep them cleanly. It is this discovery which, perpetuated
in Art, makes the whole literature of the Second Empire so repulsive
to an English Philistine. “And smell so----faugh!” Are the days of
chivalry, then, over? Is the ideal of pure maidenhood, of perfect
womanhood, utterly overthrown? Is the modern woman--not Imogen, not
Portia, not the lily maid of Ascolat, not Romola, not even Helen
Pendennis?--but Messalina, Lucretia--nay, even Berthe Rougon, or the
shamble-haunting wife of Claude, or the utterable Madame Bovary? Surely,
surely, there cannot be all this literary smoke without some little
social fire. Thank God, therefore, that the wise Republic has taken to
the drastic remedy of crushing those vipers, the Christian priests, and
of abolishing the solemn farce of the marriage ceremony. Marriage is
a simple contract, not an arrangement made in heaven; it is social and
sanitary, not religious and ideal;--and when any of the conditions are
broken by either of the contracting parties, the contract is at an end.
Yes, I suppose it is so; I suppose that women are not angels, and
that married life is an arrangement. And yet how much sweeter was
that old-fashioned belief which pictured the wedded life as a divine
communion of souls, a golden ladder beginning at the altar, and
reaching--through many dark shadows, perhaps, but surely reaching--up to
heaven! Ah, my hymeneal Jacob’s Ladder, with angels for ever descending
and ascending, you have vanished from the world, with Noah’s Dove of
Peace, and Christ’s Rainbow of Promise! All faiths have gone, and the
faith in Love is the last to go.
I find that I am philosophizing--prosing, in other words--instead of
setting down events as they occur. But indeed, there are no events
to set down. I am in the position of the needy knife-grinder of the
Anti-Jacobin:
“Story? God bless you, I have none to tell, sir!”
So, to ease my mind, I pour out my bile on paper.
_December_ 21.--I have made a discovery. During the last few days
my wife and Santley have been in correspondence. At any rate, he has
written to her; and I suspect she has replied.
Baptisto has been my informant. Despite my command that he should cease
to play the spy, he has persisted in keeping his eyes and ears open, and
has managed to convey to me, in one way or another, exactly what he
has seen or heard. This morning, when hanging about the lodge (still
fascinated, I suspect, by the little widow), he discovered that there
was a letter there addressed to his mistress, and he asked me, quite
innocently, if he should fetch and take it to her. I showed no sign of
anger or surprise, but bade him mind his own business. In the forenoon,
I saw Ellen emerge from the house, and stroll carelessly in the
direction of the lodge gates. I followed her at a distance, and saw, her
enter the lodge, and emerge directly afterwards with a letter, which she
read hastily and thrust into her bosom.
When she returned up the avenue, I was standing outside my den, waiting
for her.
She came up smiling, with her air of perfect innocence. Wrapped from
head to foot in furs, and wearing the prettiest of fur caps _à la
Russe_, she looked her very best and brightest. The sun was shining
clearly on the snow, and, as she came, she left soft footprints behind
her.
“What is my Bear doing,” she cried, “out in the cold, and without his
great coat, too?”
“The day looked so bright that I was tempted out. Where have you been?”
“Only for a little stroll,” she replied; “it is so pleasant out of
doors. By-the-bye, dear, they are skating down on Omberley Pond. I think
I shall drive over. Will you come?”
“Not to-day, Nell.”
She did not look sorry, I thought, at my refusal.
“Is there a party?” I asked carelessly.
“I don’t know; but I heard the Armstrongs were going, and some of the
people from the Abbey.”
“And Mr. Santley, I suppose?”
She flushed slightly, but answered without hesitation--
“Perhaps he will be there; but I need not speak to him, if you forbid
it. I will stay at home if you wish it, dear.”
“I don’t wish it,” I said. “Go and amuse yourself.”
“_Won’t_ you come?” she murmured, hesitating.
I shook my head, and turned back to my den. She looked after me, and
sighed; then walked slowly towards the house. What a sullen beast she
must have thought me! But I was irritated beyond measure by what I had
seen at the lodge. Not a word of the letter!
Half an hour afterwards I saw the pony-carriage waiting for her, and
presently she drove off, looking (as I thought) bright and happy
enough. No sooner had she gone than I was mad with myself for not having
accompanied her. Was it a _rendezvous?_ Had she gone, of set purpose, to
meet _him?_ I cursed my stupidity, my sullenness. At a word from me she
would have remained. I had almost made up my mind to walk over, when in
came Baptisto. He was wrapped up to the chin in an old travelling cloak,
and his nose was blue with cold.
“Have you any message in the village, senor?” he asked. “I am going
there.”
I could not resist the temptation, though I hated myself for setting a
spy upon her.
“No, I have no message. Stay, though! While you are there, pass by the
skating-pond, and see if any of our friends are there.”
He understood me perfectly, and went away, well satisfied at the
commission. More and more, as the days go on, the rascal intrudes
himself into my confidence, with silent looks of sympathy, dumb signs of
devotion. He says nothing, but his looks are ever significant. Sometimes
I long, in my irritation, to get rid of him for ever; but no, I may find
him useful. I know he would go through fire and water for my sake.
In about two hours he returned with his report.
“Well?” I said, scowling at him.
“The pond is covered, senor, with gentlemen and ladies. His lordship is
there, and they are very gay. It is pretty to see them gliding about
the ice, the ladies and the gentlemen hand in hand. Sometimes the ladies
slip, and the gentlemen catch them in their arms, and then all laugh! It
is a pity that you are not there; you would be amused.”
“Is this all you have to tell me?”
“Yes, senor, except that my mistress is among them. She bade me tell
you-----”
“Yes! yes!”
“That she was enjoying herself so much, and would not be home for
lunch.” He stood with head bent gently, respectful and submissive, but
his face wore the expression which had often irritated me before--an
expression which said, as plainly as words, “How far will you let them
go? Cannot you perceive what is going on? It is no affair of mine, but
is it possible that you will endure so much and so long?” I read all
this, I say, in the fellow’s face.
“Very well,” I said sternly, dismissing him with a wave of the hand.
He went lingeringly, knowing I would be certain to call him back. As I
did.
“Was Mr. Santley there?”
Baptisto smiled--darkly, malignantly.
“Oh yes, senor, _of course!_”
I could have struck him.
Damn him! does he think I am already ornamented, like Falstaff, with an
ugly pair of horns? I shall have to get rid of him, after all. He saw
the expression on my face, and was gone in a moment; but he had left his
poison to work.
All the devil was awake within me. I could not work, I could not read, I
could not rest in any place. When the lunch-bell sounded, I went in, and
drank a couple of glasses of wine, but ate nothing. Then for some hours
I flitted about like a ghost, from room to room, from the house to
the laboratory, upstairs and down. I went into her boudoir. The rosy
curtains were drawn, and the air was still sweet with perfumes, with
the very breath of her body. I am afraid I was mean enough to play the
spy--to open drawers, to look into her work-basket; nay, I even went so
far as to inspect her wardrobe, and examine the pocket of the dress she
had worn that morning.
I wanted that letter.
If I could have found it, and read in it any confirmation of my
suspicions, I would have taken instant action. But I could not find it.
In the drawer of the work-table, however, I found something.
A sheet of paper, carefully folded up. I opened it, and found it covered
with writing in a man’s hand. At the top was written--“_I think these
are the verses you wanted? I have transcribed them for you.--C. S._” The
verses followed--some twaddle about the meeting in heaven of those who
have lived on earth; with incredible images of cherubs sitting on clouds
(blowing their own trumpets, I suppose, with angelic self-satisfaction);
descriptions of impossible habitations, with roofs of gold and silver,
and inspired rhymes of “love” and “dove,” “eyes” and “paradise.” The
paper was the pinkest of pinks, and delicately perfumed; the writing
beautiful, with ethereal curves and upsweeps, exquisite punctuation, and
a liberal supply of points of exclamation. I put the rubbish back in its
place. It had obviously been lying there for some time, and was not
at all the sort of document of which I was in search. So I quitted the
boudoir, not much wiser than when I entered it, and resumed my uneasy
ramblings about the house.
About four in the afternoon, I heard wheels coming up the avenue. I
looked out, and was just in time to see the pony-carriage pass. What was
my amazement, however, when I beheld, calmly driving the carriage, with
my wife seated at his side, the clergyman himself.
My head went round, and I felt positively bloodthirsty. Seizing my hat,
I hastened round, and arrived just as Santley was carrying Ellen up the
steps into the house. Yes, actually carrying her in his arms! I could
scarcely believe my eyes; but, coming up close, I saw that she was
ghastly pale, and that something unusual must have occurred.
He had placed her on a chair in the lobby, and was bending over her just
as I followed. I am afraid that the expression of my face was sinister
and agitated enough; I stood glaring at the two, like one gasping for
breath.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, meeting my eyes. “There has been a slight
accident, that is all. Mrs. Haldane slipped on the ice, and, falling,
sprained her ankle.”
Ellen, who seemed in great pain, looked up at me with a beseeching
expression; for she at least read my suspicion in my face.
“It was so stupid of me!” she murmured, forcing a faint smile, and
reaching out her hand. “I could not come home alone--I was in such
pain--and Mr. Santley kindly volunteered to bring me.”
What could I do? I could not knock a man down for having performed
what appeared a simple act of courtesy. I could not exhibit any anger,
without looking like an idiot or a boor. Santley had merely done what
any other gentleman would have done under the circumstances. For all
that, I had an uneasy sense of being humbugged.
“Let me look at your foot,” I said gruffly.
She pushed, it from underneath her dress. The boot had been taken off,
and a white silk handkerchief tightly wrapped about the ankle.
“Mr. Santley bound it up,” she explained.
I took the foot in my hand, and in my secret fury, I think I was a
little rough, for she uttered a cry.
“Take care!” cried the clergyman. “It is very tender.”
I looked up at him with a scowl, but said nothing.
“Shall I carry you into the drawingroom?” he said, with tender
solicitude.
“No; I am better now, and George will give me his arm. Pray do not
stay.”
She rose with difficulty, and, resting all her weight upon her left
foot, leant upon me. In this manner she managed to limp into the
drawing-room, and to place herself upon a couch. Her pallor still
continued, and I felt sorry, for I hate to see a woman suffer. Santley,
who had followed us, and was watching her with extraordinary sympathy,
now bent softly over her.
“Are you still in pain?” he murmured.
“A little; but----”
“Shall I send Doctor Spruce over? I shall be passing the surgery on my
way back. If he is not at home, I will procure some remedies, and bring
them on myself.”
Here I interposed.
“Pray do not trouble yourself,” I said, with a sneer. “A sprained
ankle is a trifle, and I can attend to it. Unless my wife is in need of
_religious_ ministration, you need not remain.”
I spoke brutally, as I felt; and, meeting the man’s pale, sad,
astonished gaze, I became secretly humiliated. A husband, I perceive, is
a ridiculous animal, and always at a disadvantage. I begin to understand
how the poets, from Molière downwards, have made married men their
shuttlecocks. A jealous lover has dignity; a jealous husband, none.
Nobody sympathizes with my lord of Rimini, while all the world weeps for
Lancelot and Francesca. Even Ford, ere he turns the tables on Sir John,
poses as an ass. All the right was on my side, all the offended dignity,
all the outraged honesty; yet somehow I felt, at that moment, like an
ill-conditioned cur.
“I am not here in a religious capacity,” he replied courteously,
“so your sneer is hardly fair. However, since I can be of no further
service, I will go.”
He turned softly to Ellen, holding out his hand.
“Good-bye. I hope you will be better to-morrow.”
“Good-bye, and thank you,” she replied. “It was so good of you to bring
me home.”
And so, with a courteous bow to me, which I returned with a nod, he
retired victoriously. Yes, he had the best of it for the time being.
For some minutes after he left, and while the scent of his perfumed
handkerchief still filled the air, I stood moodily waiting. At last
Ellen spoke.
“I hope you are not angry. What could I do? I could not come home in
such pain, and no one else offered to escort me.”
“I did not ask you to excuse yourself,” I said coldly.
I saw the tears standing in her eyes. Her voice trembled as she
murmured--
“I did not think you could have been so unkind!”
As I did not answer, she continued--
“Of late you have not been like yourself. You used to trust me; we used
to be so happy! If this is to go on, we had better separate; it makes my
life a misery.”
She had touched the wrong chord, if she thought to move my pity. My
jealous brain was at work at once. She was thinking of a separation,
then? Perhaps she wished it; and perhaps the true reason was her love
for that man?
I spoke out in the heat of the moment--
“If you wish to separate, it can be arranged.”
She looked at me so pleadingly, so piteously, that I had to turn my
eyes away. In encounters of this kind the man has no chance against the
woman, especially if he is magnanimous. What are all his arguments, all
his indignation, against her battery of woeful looks, her tears, her
pseudo-innocence, and real helplessness? One feels like a coward, too,
in such an encounter. I did, I know.
Nevertheless, I was ready to give her the _coup de grace_.
“Show me that letter,” I said suddenly.
“What letter?” she asked, as if she did not comprehend.
“The letter you received from that man this morning.”
For a moment her cheeks went scarlet, then became deadly pale again.
“Pray do not attempt any subterfuge,” I continued. “I know that you have
been in correspondence. Where is that last letter? I demand to see it.”
She replied without hesitation.
“You cannot see it.”
“Why?”
“Because I have burned it.”
At this admission I lost my self-command, and uttered an execration.
“There was nothing in it,” she said sorrowfully; “it was a mere request
for an interview. You have no right to be so violent.”
“No right, woman!” I cried.
“There is nothing between us to make me ashamed. If I were the most
guilty woman in the world, you could not treat me more cruelly. You
have no pity, none. It is my fault, my punishment, to have married a man
without sympathy, without religion.”
Religion again! How I hated the word! It stung me into retorting
fiercely--
“It is my misfortune, rather, to have married a sentimental hypocrite!”
I had gone too far. Her proud spirit rose against me. Pale and
indignant, she tried to rise to her feet. But she had forgotten her
sprained ankle. Her face was contracted with sudden torture, and, with a
low cry of pain, she fainted away upon the floor.
_December_ 23.--In two more days the Christmas bells will ring, with
their merry tidings of peace, good will, and plum-pudding to all the
world. Well, mine is likely to be a cheerful Christmas Day. The snow is
still on the ground, and more is falling; and outside the Manor, as I
write, the dreariest of dreary winds is wailing. Here, inside, there is
even greater gloom. A cheerless hearth, a husband and wife estranged.
Bah! the old story.
Things have come to a crisis at last between us. I know now that I must
either strike a cruel blow, or lose my wife for ever. Any mere armistice
is impossible. Either I must assault my enemy’s camp, get him by the
throat, and cover him with punishment and confusion; or haul down my
matrimonial flag, capitulate, and let the Church and the devil come in
to take possession.