Diana did not slacken in her devotion, but there came a limit to the
endurance of Gervase. The gleam of success was but the gleam before
the overcast.
First, Gervase was conscious of being nettled by the distance which
existed between him and Diana. And certainly, to be sensible of his arm
being arrested by an unseen obstacle when he thought to put it round his
own wife's waist, to collapse in the mere idea of asking her to give him
a kiss, never to have felt so fully the dissipated, degraded fool he had
been, as he felt then, was not a pleasant sensation. It may sound
immoral, but it seemed as if, had Gervase been more depraved, there
would have been more hope for him, since he would have appreciated the
gulf between him and his guardian less.
Then the old craving returned like a death thirst. The old, wild,
worthless, low companions, were cognisant, as if by instinct, of a
relapse. Eager to hail its signs, and profit by them, they waylaid him
at the 'Spreading Ash,' with "Hey, don't you dare to swallow a single
glass in your own village, to give custom to your villager, man?" They
waylaid and gathered round him in the market-place of Market Hesketh,
with "Well met, Mr. Gervase Norgate. Lord! are you alive still? for we
had doubted it. Don't speak to him to detain him, you fellows; don't you
see Mrs. Gervase has her eye upon him, and is craning her neck to
discover what is keeping him? Off with you, sir, since you are a
husband, a reformed rake, and a church-goer. If you had gone and joined
the Methodists, you might have been a preacher yourself by this time.
Oh! we don't want to spoil sport and balk your good intentions; but, by
George, Gervase, we never thought you would have been the man to be
tied so tight to a woman's apron-string. You must spare us one more
carouse for old friendship's sake, my boy, just to try what it is like
again, and hear all the news. Ah! your teeth are watering; come along;
Madam is not to swallow you up entirely."
They got him away from his wife, and made him leave her sitting an
hour in the carriage, with a pair of young horses pawing and rearing
and endangering her very life in the yard of the 'Crown.' They made
him send her home without him, and kept him till they had nothing more
to say than "Heave the poor devil into a gig, and drive him up to his
own door and put him down there. It is the best you can do for
him,--the fool was always so easily upset; and it will do for her at
the same time--give her something to hold her cursed high white head
in the air and turn up her nose for; serve her impudence right for
taking it upon her to act as private policeman to Jarvie." They sent
him home to her, a beast who had been with wild beasts. They did it
for the most part heedlessly, in jollity and jeering; but they did it
not the less effectually. The wild beast of sensuality had him again;
not one devil, but seven, had entered into him; and reigning king over
the others, an insensate devil of cruel jealousy of his wife, of his
gaoler, resenting her efforts, defying her pains.
Diana did not take Gervase Norgate's backsliding to her very heart, was
not wounded to death by it as if she had loved him. But she did not give
him up. She was a tenacious woman, and Gervase Norgate's salvation was
her one chance of moral redemption from the base barter of her
marriage. She did not reproach him: she was too proud a woman, too cold
to him, to goad and sting him by reproaches. They might have served her
end better than the terrible aggravation of her silence. She was just
too, and she did not accuse him unduly. She said to herself, "He is a
poor, misguided fellow, a brute where drink is concerned: when I married
him, that was as clear as day. I have no right to complain, though he
resume his bad courses." Still she left no stone unturned; she was
prepared, as before, to ride and walk and play with him at all hours;
she ignored his frequent absences and the condition in which he came
back, as far as possible. She abetted old Miles in clearing away,
silently and swiftly, the miserable evidences of mischief. She smuggled
out of sight, and huddled into oblivion, battered hats, broken pipes and
sticks, stopperless flasks, cracked, smoky lanterns--concealing them
with a decent, decorous, sacred duplicity even from Aunt Tabby, who
trotted across the country on her father's old trotting mare, took her
observations, and departed, shaking her head and moralizing on the text,
"Cast not your pearls before swine."
Diana sat at her forlorn post in the billiard-room, or by the
cribbage-board, or at the piano which Gervase had got for her. She had
some small skill to play and sing to him, and was indefatigable in
learning the simple tunes and songs he liked. And night after night she
was left alone, unapproached, uncalled for; or else Gervase stumbled in
from the dining-room or from an adjournment to the village tavern, where
he was the acknowledged king and emperor, bemussed, befumed, giddy,
hilarious, piteously maudlin, or deliriously furious. She stooped to
smile and answer his random ravings and to comply with his demands. If
she escaped actual outrage and injury in his house and hers, it was not
because she did not provoke him, for there was nothing in his wife which
Gervase hated so heartily, resented so keenly, as her refraining from
contradicting him. But below the grossness and sin of the poor lout and
caitiff there was a fund of sullen, latent manliness and kindness, which
held him back from insulting the defenceless woman--for all her pride
and purity--who was his wife, just as it had held him back from dallying
with and caressing her as his mistress.
The neighbourhood which had furnished both a dress-circle and a pit to
witness Diana's spectacle, was not astonished at the fate of the
adventure. Its success would have been little short of a miracle, and
these were not the days of faith in miracles; so the neighbourhood did
not pity Mrs. Gervase Norgate, for she had been foolhardy at the best,
and her fortune or misfortune had only been what ought to have been
expected. For that matter Mrs. Gervase Norgate would not have thanked
the world for its pity, though it had been lavishly vouchsafed.
There was one point on which Diana did not hesitate to contradict
Gervase, and persisted in contradicting him. She would not suffer him,
if she could help it, to frequent Newton-le-Moor, or to consort with Mr.
Baring. For to go to Newton-le-Moor was to go among the Philistines; and
lawless as Gervase was in his own person, it should never be with his
wife's consent that he should go and be plundered by her own flesh and
blood--his errors rendering him but a safer and a surer prey.
Gervase was standing restless and indignant by the low bow-window of his
wife's drawing-room, opening on the flower-garden, which had been laid
out in their honeymoon, and in which she continued to take pleasure,
though the wealth of glowing autumn geraniums and verbenas had given
place to the few frosted winter chrysanthemums. It was but the middle of
the day, and he had risen and had his cup of tea laced with brandy and
crowned with brandy, so that the jaded man was comparatively fresh, but
irritable to the last nerve, each jarring nerve twanging like
harpstrings, sending electric thrills of vexation and rage over his
whole body at the cross of every straw.
Diana, who had been up and busy for hours, was sitting at her desk; her
brow, whatever cares lurked behind it, unruffled and white; a seemly,
reasonable, refined woman, aggrieved every day she lived, but scorning
to betray a knowledge of the grievance.
"Don't go to Newton, above all by yourself, Gervase," the wife was
entreating, gravely and earnestly. "I am afraid my father may take the
opportunity of trying to get money from you. He has entered horses for
the Thorpe stakes: he will seek to make you enter them, and you told
me yourself May and Highflyer were not fit to run this year. Or he
will seek to lead you into some other transaction in horse-flesh, or
have you into the house to play billiards and remain to dinner and
cards all night, and there is always high play at Newton. My father is
a needy man, and needy men are tempted to be unscrupulous; at least
his code implies few scruples, where the letter of the laws of honour
is complied with."
"It comes ill off your hand to say so," observed Gervase harshly.
Undoubtedly he spoke no more than the truth, and such a life as Gervase
Norgate's was not a school for magnanimity.
Die winced a little; and she was a woman whose fair cheek so rarely
blushed, that her blushing was like another woman's crying. Die never
cried; Gervase Norgate had never wrung a tear from her, or seen her
shed a tear.
"Well, it was hard for me to say it," she admitted, with an accent of
reproach in her equable tones; "but there the wrong and the shame are,
and I owe it to myself and to you to warn you."
"I wonder how much I owe your being here to Newton-le-Moor being
little better than a not very reputable gambling-house," exclaimed
Gervase rudely.
She looked at him with her wide-open eyes, as if she had been struck,
but did not care to own the blow.
"It was not to much profit where you were concerned," he continued, in
an infatuation of brutality; "it did not get you so much as a
pocket-handkerchief, or a flower-garden like that down there, or,"
glancing round him, "trumpery hangings and mirrors, and a new gown or
two, or any other of the miserable trash for which women sell
themselves."
She neither spoke nor stirred.
He had worked himself into a blindness of rage, in which he could see
nothing before him but the possibility of moving her, of breaking down
and destroying her calm front.
"And I wonder how much you owe your being here to my being a prodigal
clutching at any respite? You may well come down lightly on my faults,
Madam; they have made you the mistress of Ashpound in the present, and
won for you its widow's jointure in the future. If I had known all
beforehand, I might not have encumbered myself in vain. As it is, I
do not think it becomes you to lecture me on keeping company with your
own father."
She got up and left the room.
It was time, when all was lost, even honour. If he had not been himself,
she might have passed over his taunts with simple shame and disgust; but
given, as they were, when she held that he knew what he was saying--as a
proof that he had not a particle of respect and regard for her after
their months of wedlock, they were a certain indication of his ruin and
her reward.