IF I had been traveling homeward in my own carriage, the remaining
chapters of this narrative would never have been written. Before we had
been an hour on the road I should have called to the driver, and should
have told him to turn back.
Who can be always resolute?
In asking that question, I speak of the women, not of the men. I
had been resolute in turning a deaf ear to Mr. Playmore’s doubts and
cautions; resolute in holding out against my mother-in-law; resolute
in taking my place by the French mail. Until ten minutes after we had
driven away from the inn my courage held out--and then it failed me;
then I said to myself, “You wretch, you have deserted your husband!” For
hours afterward, if I could have stopped the mail, I would have done it.
I hated the conductor, the kindest of men. I hated the Spanish ponies
that drew us, the cheeriest animals that ever jingled a string of
bells. I hated the bright day that _would_ make things pleasant, and
the bracing air that forced me to feel the luxury of breathing whether
I liked it or not. Never was a journey more miserable than my safe and
easy journey to the frontier. But one little comfort helped me to bear
my heart-ache resignedly--a stolen morsel of Eustace’s hair. We had
started at an hour of the morning when he was still sound asleep. I
could creep into his room, and kiss him, and cry over him softly, and
cut off a stray lock of his hair, without danger of discovery. How I
summoned resolution enough to leave him is, to this hour, not clear to
my mind. I think my mother-in-law must have helped me, without meaning
to do it. She came into the room with an erect head and a cold eye; she
said, with an unmerciful emphasis on the word, “If you _mean_ to go,
Valeria, the carriage is here.” Any woman with a spark of spirit in her
would have “meant” it under those circumstances. I meant it--and did it.
And then I was sorry for it. Poor humanity! Time has got all the credit
of being the great consoler of afflicted mortals. In my opinion, Time
has been overrated in this matter. Distance does the same beneficent
work far more speedily, and (when assisted by Change) far more
effectually as well. On the railroad to Paris, I became capable of
taking a sensible view of my position. I could now remind myself that
my husband’s reception of me--after the first surprise and the first
happiness had passed away--might not have justified his mother’s
confidence in him. Admitting that I ran a risk in going back to
Miserrimus Dexter, should I not have been equally rash, in another way,
if I had returned, uninvited, to a husband who had declared that our
conjugal happiness was impossible, and that our married life was at an
end? Besides, who could say that the events of the future might not y
et justify me--not only to myself, but to him? I might yet hear him
say, “She was inquisitive when she had no business to inquire; she
was obstinate when she ought; to have listened to reason; she left my
bedside when other women would have remained; but in the end she atoned
for it all--she turned out to be right!”
I rested a day at Paris and wrote three letters.
One to Benjamin, telling him to expect me the next evening. One to Mr.
Playmore, warning him, in good time, that I meant to make a last effort
to penetrate the mystery at Gleninch. One to Eustace (of a few lines
only), owning that I had helped to nurse him through the dangerous part
of his illness; confessing the one reason which had prevailed with me
to leave him; and entreating him to suspend his opinion of me until time
had proved that I loved him more dearly than ever. This last letter I
inclosed to my mother-in-law, leaving it to her discretion to choose the
right time for giving it to her son. I positively forbade Mrs. Macallan,
however, to tell Eustace of the new tie between us. Although he _had_
separated himself from me, I was determined that he should not hear
it from other lips than mine. Never mind why. There are certain little
matters which I must keep to myself; and this is one of them.
My letters being written, my duty was done. I was free to play my last
card in the game--the darkly doubtful game which was neither quite for
me nor quite against me as the chances now stood.