"'Tis with our judgment as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own."
Lord Baltimore had not spoken in a mere fit or pique when he told Lady
Swansdown of his fixed intention of putting a term to his present life.
His last interview with his wife had quite decided him to throw up
everything and seek forgetfulness in travel. Inclination had pointed
toward such countries as Africa, or the northern parts of America, as,
being a keen sportsman, he believed there he might find an occupation
that would distract his mind from the thoughts that now jarred upon him
incessantly.
His asking Lady Swansdown to accompany him therefore had been a sudden
determination. To go on a lengthened shooting expedition by one's self
is one thing, to go with a woman delicately nurtured is another. Of
course, had she agreed to his proposal, all his plans must necessarily
have been altered, and perhaps his second feeling, after her refusal to
go with him, was one of unmistakable relief. His proposal to her at
least had been born of pique!
The next morning found him, however, still strong in his desire for
change. The desire was even so far stronger that he now burned to put it
into execution; to get away to some fresh sphere of action, and
deliberately set himself to obliterate from his memory all past ties and
recollections.
There was, too, perhaps a touch of revenge that bordered upon pleasure
as he thought of what his wife would say when she heard of his decision.
She who shrank so delicately from gossip of all kinds could not fail to
be distressed by news that must inevitably leave her and her private
affairs open to public criticism. Though everybody was perpetually
guessing about her domestic relations with her husband, no one as a
matter of fact knew (except, indeed, two) quite the real truth about
them. This would effectually open the eyes of society, and proclaim to
everybody that, though she had refused to demand a separation, still she
had been obliged to accept it. This would touch her. If in no other way
could he get at her proud spirit, here now he would triumph. She had
been anxious to get rid of him in a respectable way, of course, but
death as usual had declined to step in when most wanted, and now, well!
She must accept her release, in however disreputable a guise it comes.
It is just at the moment when Mrs. Blake is holding forth on Lady
Baltimore's affairs to Mrs. Monkton that Baltimore enters the smaller
drawing-room, where he knows he will be sure to meet his wife at this
hour.
It is far in the afternoon, still the spring sunshine is streaming
through the windows. Lady Baltimore, in a heavy tea gown of pale green
plush, is sitting by the fire reading a book, her little son upon the
hearth rug beside her. The place is strewn with bricks, and the boy, as
his father enters, looks up at him and calls to him eagerly to come and
help him. At the sound of the child's quick, glad voice a pang contracts
Baltimore's heart. The child----He had forgotten him.
"I can't make this castle," says Bertie, "and mother isn't a bit of
good. Hers always fall down; come you and make me one."
"Not now," says Baltimore. "Not to-day. Run away to your nurse. I want
to speak to your mother."
There is something abrupt and jerky in his manner--something strained,
and with sufficient temper in it to make the child cease from entreaty.
The very pain Baltimore, is feeling has made his manner harsher to the
child. Yet, as the latter passes him obediently, he seizes the small
figure in his arms and presses him convulsively to his breast. Then,
putting him down, he points silently but peremptorily to the door.
"Well?" says Lady Baltimore. She has risen, startled by his abrupt
entrance, his tone, and more than all, by that last brief but passionate
burst of affection toward the child. "You, wish to speak to me--again?"
"There won't be many more opportunities," says he, grimly. "You may
safely give me a few moments to-day. I bring you good news. I am going
abroad. At once. Forever."
In spite of the self-control she has taught herself, Lady Baltimore's
self-possession gives way. Her brain seems to reel. Instinctively she
grasps hold of the back of a tall _prie-dieu_ next to her.
"Hah! I thought so--I have touched her at last, through her pride,"
thinks Baltimore, watching her with a savage satisfaction, which,
however, hurts him horribly. And after all he was wrong, too. He had
touched her, indeed; but it was her heart, not her pride, he had
wounded.
"Abroad?" echoes she, faintly.
"Yes; why not? I am sick of this sort of life. I have decided on
flinging it up."
"Since when have you come to this decision?" asks she presently, having
conquered her sudden weakness by a supreme effort.
"If you want day and date I'm afraid I shan't be able to supply you. It
has been growing upon me for some time--the idea of it, I mean--and last
night you brought it to perfection."
"I?"
"Have you already forgotten all the complimentary speeches you made me?
They"--with a sardonic smile--"are so sweet to me that I shall keep them
ripe in my memory until death overtakes me--and after it, I think! You
told me, among many other wifely things--if my mind does not deceive
me--that you wished me well out of your life, and Lady Swansdown with
me."
"That is a direct and most malicious misapplication of my words," says
she, emphatically.
"Is it? I confess that was my reading of them. I accepted that version,
and thinking to do you a good turn, and relieve you of both your _bêtes
noire_ at once, I proposed to Lady Swansdown last night that she should
accompany me upon my endless travels."
There is a long, long pause, during which Lady Baltimore's face seems to
have grown into marble. She takes a step forward now. Through the stern
pallor of her skin her large eyes seem to gleam like fire.
"How dare you!" she says in a voice very low but so intense that it
rings through the room. "How dare you tell me of this! Are you lost to
all shame? You and she to go--to go away together! It is only what I
have been anticipating for months. I could see how it was with you. But
that you should have the insolence to stand before me--" she grows
almost magnificent in her wrath--"and declare your infamy aloud! Such a
thought was beyond me. There was a time when I would have thought it
beyond you!"
"Was there?" says he. He laughs aloud.
"There, there, there!" says she, with a rather wild sort of sigh. "Why
should I waste a single emotion upon you. Let me take you calmly,
casually. Come--come now." It is the saddest thing in the world to see
how she treads down the passionate, most natural uprisings within her
against the injustice of life: "Make me at least _au courant_ with your
movements, you and she will go--where?"
"To the devil, you thought, didn't you?" says he. "Well, you will be
disappointed as far as she is concerned. I maybe going. It appears she
doesn't think it worth while to accompany me there or anywhere else."
"You mean that she refused to go with you?"
"In the very baldest language, I assure you. It left nothing to be
desired, believe me, in the matter of lucidity. 'No,' she would not go
with me. You see there is not only one, but two women in the world who
regard me as being utterly without charm."
"I commiserate you!" says she, with a bitter sneer. "If, after all your
attention to her, your friend has proved faithless, I----"
"Don't waste your pity," says he, interrupting her rather rudely. "On
the whole, the decision of my 'friend,' as you call her, was rather a
relief to me than otherwise. I felt it my duty to deprive you of her
society"--with an unpleasant laugh--"and so I asked her to come with me.
When she declined to accompany me she left me free to devote myself to
sport."
"Ah! you refuse to be corrupted?" says she, contemptuously.
"Think what you will," says he, restraining himself with determination.
"It doesn't matter in the least to me now. Your opinion I consider
worthless, because prejudiced--as worthless as you consider me. I came
here simply to tell you of my determination to go abroad."
"You have told me of that already. Lady Swansdown having failed you, may
I ask"--with studied contempt--"who you are going to take with you now?"
"What do you mean?" says he, wheeling round to her. "What do you mean by
that? By heavens!" laying his hands upon her shoulders, and looking with
fierce eyes into her pale face. "A man might well kill you!"
"And why?" demands she, undauntedly. "You would have taken her--you have
confessed so much--you had the coarse courage to put it into words. If
not her, why"--with a shrug--"then another!"
"There! think as you will," says he, releasing her roughly. "Nothing I
could say would convince or move you. And yet, I know it is no use, but
I am determined I will leave nothing unsaid. I will give you no
loop-hole. I asked her to go with me in a moment of irritation, of
loneliness, if you will; it is hard for a man to be forever outside the
pale of affection, and I thought--well, it is no matter what I thought.
I was wrong it seems. As for caring for her, I care so little that I now
feel actually glad she had the sense to refuse my senseless proposal.
She would have bored me, I think, and I should undoubtedly have bored
her. The proposition was made to her in a moment of folly."
"Oh, folly?" says she with a curious laugh.
"Well, give it any other name you like. And after all," in a low tone,
"you are right. It was not the word. If I had said despair I should have
been nearer the mark."
"There might even be another word," said she slowly.
"Even if there were," says he, "the occasion for it is of your making.
You have thrown me; you must be prepared, therefore, to accept the
consequences."
"You have prepared me for anything," says she calmly, but with bitter
meaning.
"See here," says he furiously. "There may still be one thing left for
you which I have not prepared. You have just asked me who I am going to
take with me when I leave this place forever. Shall I answer you?"
Something in his manner terrifies her; she feels her face blanching.
Words are denied her, but she makes a faint movement to assent with her
hand. What is he going to say!
"What if I should decide, then, on taking my son with me?" says he
violently. "Who is there to prevent me? Not you, or another. Thus I
could cut all ties and put you out of my life at once and forever!"
He had certainly not calculated on the force of his words or his manner.
It had been a mere angry suggestion. There was no crudity in Baltimore's
nature. He had never once permitted himself to dwell upon the
possibility of separating the boy from his mother. Such terrible revenge
as that was beyond him, his whole nature would have revolted against it.
He had spoken with passion, urged by her contempt into a desire to show
her where his power lay, without any intention of actually using it. He
meant perhaps to weaken her intolerable defiance, and show her where a
hole in her armor lay. He was not prepared for the effect of his words.
An ashen shade has overspread her face; her expression has become
ghostly. As though her limbs have suddenly given way under her, she
falls against the mantel-piece and clings to it with trembling fingers.
Her eyes, wild and anguished, seek his.
"The child!" gasps she in a voice of mortal terror. "The child! Not the
child! Oh! Baltimore, you have taken all from me except that. Leave me
my child!"
"Good heavens! Don't look at me like that," exclaims he, inexpressibly
shocked--this sudden and complete abandonment of herself to her fear has
horrified him. "I never meant it. I but suggested a possibility. The
child shall stay with you. Do you hear me, Isabel! The child is yours!
When I go, I go alone!"
There is a moment's silence, and then she bursts into tears. It is a
sharp reaction, and it shakes her bodily and mentally. A wild return of
her love for him--that first, sweet, and only love of her life, returns
to her, born of intense gratitude. But sadly, slowly, it dies away
again. It seems to her too late to dream of that again. Yet perhaps her
tears have as much to do with that lost love as with her gratitude.
Slowly her color returns. She checks her sobs. She raises her head and
looks at him still with her handkerchief pressed to her tremulous lips.
"It is a promise," says she.
"Yes. A promise."
"You will not change again--" nervously. "You----"
"Ah! doubt to the last," says he. "It is a promise from me to you, and
of course the word of such a reprobate as you consider me can scarcely
be of any avail."
"But you could not break this promise?" says she in a low voice, and
with a long, long sigh.
"What trust you place in me!" said he, with an open sneer--"Well, so be
it. I give you home and child. You give me----Not worth while going into
the magnificence of your gifts, is it?"
"I gave you once a whole heart--an unbroken faith," says she.
"And took them back again! Child's play!" says he. "Child's promises.
Well, if you will have it so, you have got a promise from me now, and I
think you might say 'thank you' for it as the children do."
"I do thank you!" says she vehemently. "Does not my whole manner speak
for me?" Once again her eyes filled with tears.
"So much love for the child," cries he in a stinging tone, "and not one
thought for the father. Truly your professions of love were light as
thistledown. There! you are not worth a thought yourself. Expend any
affection you have upon your son, and forget me as soon as ever you can.
It will not take you long, once I am out of your sight!"
He strides towards the door, and then looks back at her.
"You understand about my going?" he says; "that it is decided, I mean?"
"As you will," says she, her glance on the ground. There is such a total
lack of emotion in her whole air that it might suggest itself to an
acute student of human nature that she is doing her very utmost to
suppress even the smallest sign of it. But, alas! Baltimore is not that
student.
"Be just:" says he sternly. "It is as you will--not as I. It is you who
are driving me into exile."
He has turned his back, and has his hand on the handle of the door in
the act of opening it. At this instant she makes a move toward him,
holding out her hands, but as suddenly suppresses herself. When he turns
again to say a last word she is standing where he last saw her, pale and
impassive as a statue.
"There will be some matters to arrange," says he, "before my going. I
have telegraphed to Hansard" (his lawyer), "he will be down in the
morning. There will be a few papers for you to sign to-morrow----"
"Papers?"
"My will and your maintenance whilst I am away; and matters that will
concern the child's future."
"His future. That means----"
"That in all probability when I have started I shall never see his face
again--or yours."
He opens the door abruptly, and is gone.