"AT SIXES AND SEVENS."
Pol.--"What do you read, my lord?"
Ham.--"Words, words, words."
She sighs heavily, as the door closes on her brother. A sense of
weakness, of powerlessness oppresses her. She has fought so long, and
for what? Is there nothing to be gained; no truth to be defended
anywhere, no standard of right and wrong. Are all men--all--base,
selfish, cowardly, dishonorable? Her whole being seems aflame with the
indignation that is consuming her, when a knock sounds at the door.
There is only one person in the house who knocks at her boudoir door. To
every one, servants, guests, child, it is a free land; to her husband
alone it is forbidden ground.
"Come in," says she, in a cold, reluctant tone.
"I know I shall be terribly in your way," says Baltimore, entering, "but
I must beg you to give me five minutes. I hear Beauclerk has returned,
and that you have seen him. What kept him?"
Now Lady Baltimore--who a moment ago had condemned her brother heartily
to his face--feels, as her husband addresses her, a perverse desire to
openly contradict all that her honest judgment had led her to say to
Beauclerk. That sense of indignation that was burning so hotly in her
breast as Baltimore knocked at her door still stirs within her, but now
its fire is directed against this latest comer. Who is he, that he
should dare to question the honor of any man; and that there is
annoyance and condemnation now in Baltimore's eyes is not to be denied.
"The weather," returns she shortly.
"By your tone I judge you deem that an adequate excuse for keeping Miss
Kavanagh from her home for half a day and a night."
"There was a terrible storm," says. Lady Baltimore calmly; "the worst we
have had for months."
"If it had been ten times as bad he should, in my opinion, have come
home."
The words seem a mere repetition to Lady Baltimore. She had, indeed,
used them to Beauclerk herself, or some such, a few minutes ago. Yet she
seems to repudiate all sympathy with them now.
"On such a night as that? I hardly see why. Joyce was with an old
friend. Mrs. Connolly was once a servant of her father's, and he----"
"Should have left her with the old friend and come home."
Again her own argument, and again perversity drives her to take the
opposite side--the side against her conscience.
"Society must be in a very bad state if a man must perforce encounter
thunder, rain, lightning; in fact, a chance of death from cold and
exposure, all because he dare not spend one night beneath the roof of a
respectable woman like Mrs. Connolly, with a girl friend, without
bringing down on him the censures of his entire world."
"You can, it appears, be a most eloquent advocate for the supposed
follies of any one but your husband. Nevertheless, I must persist in my
opinion that it was, to put it very charitably indeed, inconsiderate of
your brother to study his own comfort at the expense of his--girl
friend. I believe that is your way of putting it, isn't it?"
"Yes," immovably. She has so far given way to movement, however, that
she has taken up a feather fan lying near, and now so holds it between
her and Baltimore that he cannot distinctly see her face.
"As for the world you speak of--it will not judge him as leniently as
you do. It can talk. No one," bitterly, "is as good a witness of that as
I am."
"But seldom," coldly, "without reason."
"And no one is a better witness of that than you are! That is what you
would say, isn't it? Put down that fan, can't you?" with a touch of
savage impatience. "Are you ashamed to carry out your argument with me
face to face?"
"Ashamed!" Lady Baltimore has sprung suddenly to her feet, and sent the
fan with a little crash to the ground. "Oh! shame on you to mention such
a word."
"Am I to be forever your one scapegoat? Now take another one, I beseech
you," says Baltimore with that old, queer, devilish mockery on his face
that was never seen there until gossiping tongues divided him from his
wife. "Here is your brother, actually thrown to you, as it were. Surely
he will be a proof that I am not the only vile one among all the herd.
If nothing else, acknowledge him selfish. A man who thought more of a
dry coat than a young, a very young, girl's reputation. Is that nothing?
Oh! consider, I beseech you!" his bantering manner, in which there is so
much misery that it should have reached her but does not, grows stronger
every instant "Even a big chill from the heavens above would not have
killed him, whereas we all know how a little breath from the world below
can kill many a----"
"Oh I you can talk, talk, talk," says she, that late unusual burst of
passion showing some hot embers still. "But can words alter facts?" She
pauses; a sudden chill seems to enwrap her. As if horrified by her late
descent into passion she gathers herself together, and defies him once
again with a cold look. "Why say anything more about it?" she says. "We
do not agree."
"On this subject, at least, we should," says he hotly. "I think your
brother should not have left us in ignorance of Miss Kavanagh's safety
for so many hours. And you," with a sneer, "who are such a martinet for
propriety, should certainly be prepared to acknowledge that he should
not have so regulated his conduct as to make her a subject for unkind
comment to the County. Badly," looking at her deliberately, "as you
think of me, I should not have done it."
"No?" says she. It is a cruel--an unmistakable insulting monosyllable.
And, bearing no other word with it--is the more detestable to the
hearer.
"No," says he loudly. "Sneer as you will--my conscience is at rest
there, so I can defy your suspicions."
"Ah! there!" says she.
"My dear creature," says he, "we all know there is but one villain in
the world, and you are the proud possessor of him--as a husband. Permit
me to observe, however, that a man of your code of honor, and of mine
for the matter of that--but I forget that honor and I have no cousinship
in your estimation--would have chosen to be wet to the skin rather than
imperil the fair name of the girl he loved."
"Has he told you he loved her?"
"Not in so many words."
"Then from what do you argue?"
"My dear, I have told you that you are too much for me in argument! I, a
simple on-looker, have judged merely from an every-day observance of
little unobtrusive facts. If your brother is not in love with Miss
Kavanagh, I think he ought to be. I speak ignorantly, I allow. I am not,
like you, a deep student of human nature. If, too, he did not feel it
his duty to bring her home last night, or else to leave her at Falling
and return here himself, I fail to sympathize with him. I should not
have so failed her."
"Oh but you!" says his wife, with a little contemptuous smile. "You who
are such a paragon of virtue. It would not be expected of you that you
should make such a mistake!"
She has sent forth her dart impulsively, sharply, out of the overflowing
fullness of her angry heart--and when too late, when it has sped past
recall--perhaps repents the speeding!
Such repentances, when felt too late, bring vices in their train; the
desire for good, when chilled, turns to evil. The mind, never idle, if
debarred from the best, leans inevitably toward the worst. Angry with
herself, her very soul embittered within her, Lady Baltimore feels more
and more a sense of passionate wrong against the man who had wooed and
won her, and sown the seeds of gnawing distrust within her bosom.
Baltimore's face has whitened. His brow contracts.
"What a devilish unforgiving thing is a good woman," says he, with a
reckless laugh. "That's a compliment, my lady--take it as you will.
What! are your sneers to outlast life itself? Is that old supposed sin
of mine never to be condoned? Why--say it was a real thing, instead of
being the myth it is. Even so, a woman all prayers, all holiness, such
as you are, might manage to pardon it!"
Lady Baltimore, rising, walks deliberately toward the door. It is her,
usual method of putting an end to all discussions of this sort between
them--of terminating any allusions to what she believes to be his
unfaithful past--that past that has wrecked her life.
As a rule, Baltimore makes no attempt to prolong the argument. He has
always let her go, with a sneering word, perhaps, or a muttered
exclamation; but to-day he follows her, and stepping between her and the
door, bars her departure.
"By heavens! you shall hear me," says he, his face dark with anger. "I
will not submit any longer, in silence, to your insolent treatment of
me. You condemn me, but I tell you it is I who should condemn. Do you
think I believe in your present attitude toward me? Pretend as you will,
even to yourself, in your soul it is impossible that you should give
credence to that old story, false as it is old. No! you cling to it to
mask the feet you have tired of me."
"Let me pass."
"Not until you have heard me!" With a light, but determined grasp of her
arm, he presses her back into the chair she has just quitted.
"That story was a lie, I tell you. Before our marriage, I confess, there
were some things--not creditable--to which I plead guilty, but----"
"Oh! be silent!" cries she, putting up her hand impulsively to check
him. There is open disgust and horror on her pale, severe face.
"Before, before our marriage," persists he passionately.
"What! do you think there is no temptation--no sin--no falling away from
the stern path of virtue in this life? Are you so mad or so ignorant as
to believe that every man you meet could show a perfectly clean record
of----"
"I cannot--I will not listen," interposes she, springing to her feet,
white and indignant.
"There is nothing to hear. I am not going to pollute your ears," says
he, with a curl of his lip. "Pray be reassured. What I only wish to say
is that if you condemn me for a few past sins you should condemn also
half your acquaintances. That, however, you do not do. For me alone, for
your husband, you reserve all your resentment."
"What are the others to me?"
"What am I to you, for the matter of that?" with a bitter laugh, "if
they are nothing I am less than nothing. You deliberately flung me aside
all because----Why, look here!" moving toward her in uncontrollable
agitation, "say I had sinned above the Galileans--say that lie was
true--say I had out-Heroded Herod in evil courses, still am I past the
pale of forgiveness? Saint as you are, have you no pity for me? In
all your histories of love and peace and perfection is there never
a case of a poor devil of a sinner like me being taken back into
grace--absolved--pardoned?"
"To rave like this is useless. There is no good to be got from it. You
know what I think, what I believe. You deceived--wronged----Let me go,
Cecil!"
"Before--before," repeats he, obstinately. "What that woman told you
since, I swear to you, was a most damned lie."
"I refuse to go into it again."
She is deadly pale now. Her bloodless lips almost refuse to let the
words go through them.
"You mean by that, that in spite of my oath you still cling to your
belief that I am lying to you?"
His face is livid. There is something almost dangerous about it, but
Lady Baltimore has come of too old and good a race to be frightened into
submission. Raising one small, slender hand, she lays it upon his
breast, and, with a little haughty upturning of her shapely head, pushes
him from her.
"I have told you I refuse to go into it," says she, with superb
self-control. "How long do you intend to keep me here? When may I be
allowed to leave the room?"
There is distinct defiance in the clear glance she casts at him.
Baltimore draws a long breath, and then bursts into a strange laugh.
"Why, when you will," says he, shrugging his shoulders. He makes a
graceful motion of his hand toward the door. "Shall I open it for you?
But a word still let me say--if you are not in too great a hurry!
Christianity, now, my fair saint, so far as ever I could hear or read,
has been made up of mercy. Now, you are merciless! Would you mind
letting me know how you reconcile one----"
"You perversely mistake me--I am no saint. I do not"--coldly--"profess
to be one. I am no such earnest seeker after righteousness as you
maliciously represent me. All I desire is honesty of purpose, and a
decent sense of honor--honor that makes decency. That is all. For the
rest, I am only a poor woman who loved once, and was--how many times
deceived? That probably I shall never know."
Her sad, sad eyes, looking at him, grow suddenly full of tears.
"Isabel! My meeting with that woman--that time"--vehemently--"in town
was accidental! I----It was the merest chance----"
"Don't!" says she, raising her hand, with such a painful repression of
her voice as to render it almost a whisper; "I have told you it is
useless. I have heard too much to believe anything now. I shall never, I
think," very sadly, "believe in any one again. You have murdered faith
in me. Tell this tale of yours to some one else--some one willing to
believe--to"--with a terrible touch of scorn--"Lady Swansdown, for
example."
"Why do you bring her into the discussion?" asks he, turning quickly to
her. Has she heard anything? That scene in the garden that now seems to
fill him with self-contempt. What a _bêtise_ it was! And what did it
amount to? Nothing! Lady Swansdown, he is honestly convinced, cares as
little for him as he for her. And at this moment it is borne in upon him
that he would give the embraces of a thousand such as she for one kind
glance from the woman before him.
"I merely mentioned her as a possible person who might listen to you,"
with a slight lifting of her shoulders. "A mere idle suggestion. You
will pardon me saying that this has been an idle discussion altogether.
You began by denouncing my brother to me, and now----"
"You have ended by denouncing your husband to me! As idle a beginning as
an end, surely. Still, to go back to Beauclerk. I persist in saying he
has behaved scandalously in this affair. He has imperilled that poor
child's good name."
"You can imperil names, too!" says she, turning almost fiercely on him.
"Lady Swansdown again, I suppose," says he, with a bored uplifting of
his brows. "The old grievance is not sufficient, then; you must have a
new one. I am afraid I must disappoint you. Lady Swansdown, I assure
you, cares nothing at all for me, and I care just the same amount for
her."
"Since when?"
"Since the world began--if you want a long date!"
"What a liar you are, Baltimore!" says his wife, turning to him with a
sudden breaking out of all the pent-up passion within her. Involuntarily
her hands clench themselves. She is pale no longer. A swift, hot flush
has dyed her cheeks. Like an outraged, insulted queen, she holds him a
moment with her eyes, then sweeps out of the room.