“Que suis je?--qu’ai je fait? Que dois-je faire encore?
Quel transport me saisit? Quel chagrin me dévore?”
Some hours after the quarrel about the straws, when her husband
had entirely forgotten it, and was sitting very quietly in his
own apartment writing a letter, Griselda entered the room with a
countenance prepared for great exploits.
“Mr. Bolingbroke,” she began in an awful tone of voice, “if you are at
leisure to attend to me, I wish to speak to you upon a subject of some
importance.”
“I am quite at leisure, my dear; pray sit down: what is the matter?
you really alarm me!”
“It is not my intention to alarm you, Mr. Bolingbroke,” continued she
in a still more solemn tone; “the time is past when what I have to say
could have alarmed: I am persuaded that you will now hear it without
emotion, or with an emotion of pleasure.”
She paused; he laid down his pen, and looked all expectation.
“I am come to announce to you a fixed, unalterable resolution--To part
from you, Mr. Bolingbroke.”
“Are you serious, my dear?”
“Perfectly serious, sir.”
These words did not produce the revolution in her husband’s
countenance which Griselda had expected. She trembled with a mixed
indescribable emotion of grief and rage when she heard him calmly
reply, “Let us part, then, Griselda, if that be your wish; but let me
be sure that it is your wish: I must have it repeated from your lips
when you are perfectly calm.”
With a voice inarticulate from passion, Griselda began to assure him
that she was perfectly calm; but he stopped her, and mildly said,
“Take four-and-twenty hours to consider of what you are about,
Griselda; I will be here at this time to-morrow to learn your final
determination.”
Mr. Bolingbroke left the room.
Mrs. Bolingbroke was incapable of thinking: she could only feel.
Conflicting passions assailed her heart. All the woman rushed upon
her soul; she loved her husband more at this instant than she had
ever loved him before. His firmness excited at once her anger and
her admiration. She could not believe that she had heard his _words
rightly_. She sat down to recall minutely every circumstance of what
had just passed, every word, every look; she finished by persuading
herself, that his calmness was affected, that the best method she
could possibly take was by a show of resistance to bully him out of
his indifference. She little knew what she hazarded; when the danger
of losing her husband’s love was imaginary, and solely of her own
creating, it affected her in the most violent manner; but now that the
peril was real and imminent, she was insensible to its existence.
A celebrated traveller in the Alps advises people to imagine
themselves walking amidst precipices, when they are safe upon smooth
ground; and he assures them that by this practice they may inure
themselves so to the idea of danger, as to prevent all sense of it in
the most perilous situations.
The four-and-twenty hours passed; and at the appointed moment our
heroine and her husband met. As she entered the room, she observed
that he held a book in his hand, but was not reading: he put it down,
rose deliberately, and placed a chair for her, in silence.
“I thank you, I would rather stand,” said she: he put aside the chair,
and walked to a door at the other end of the room, to examine whether
there was any one in the adjoining apartment.
“It is not necessary that what we have to say should be overheard by
servants,” said he.
“I have no objection to being overheard,” said Griselda: “I have
nothing to say of which I am ashamed; and all the world must know it
soon.”
As Mr. Bolingbroke returned towards her, she examined his countenance
with an inquisitive eye. It was expressive of concern; grave, but
calm.
Whoever has seen a balloon--the reader, however impatient, must listen
to this allusion--whoever has seen a balloon, may have observed that
in its flaccid state it can be folded and unfolded with the greatest
ease, and it is manageable even by a child; but when once filled, the
force of multitudes cannot restrain, nor the art of man direct its
course. Such is the human mind--so tractable before, so ungovernable
after it fills with passion. By slow degrees, unnoticed by our
heroine, the balloon had been filling. It was full; but yet it was
held down by strong cords: it remained with her to cut or not to cut
them.
“Reflect before you speak, my dear Griselda,” said her husband;
“consider that on the words which you are going to pronounce depend
your fate and mine.”
“I have reflected sufficiently,” said she, “and decide, Mr.
Bolingbroke--to part.”
“Be it so!” cried he; fire flashed from his eyes; he grew red and pale
in an instant. “Be it so,” repeated he, in an irrevocable voice--“We
part for ever!”
He vanished before Griselda could speak or think. She was breathless;
her limbs trembled; she could not support herself; she sunk she knew
not where. She certainly loved her husband better than any thing upon
earth, except power. When she came to her senses, and perceived that
she was alone, she felt as if she was abandoned by all the world. The
dreadful words “for ever,” still sounded in her ears. She was tempted
to yield her humour to her affection. It was but a momentary struggle;
the love of sway prevailed. When she came more fully to herself, she
recurred to the belief that her husband could not be in earnest, or at
least that he would never persist, if she had but the courage to dare
him to the utmost.