A MATRIMONIAL DIALOGUE.
Sir Henry had said also on this day that he would not dine at home;
but he came home before dinner; and after being for a few minutes
in his own study, he sent for his wife. Abigail, coming up to her,
brought her Sir Henry's love, and would she be good enough to step
downstairs for five minutes? This was very civil; so she did step
down, and found Sir Henry alone in his study.
"George Bertram has been here to-day?" were the first words which the
husband spoke when he saw that the door had been fairly closed behind
his wife.
What communication there may have been between Sir Henry and his
servant John is, oh my reader, a matter too low for you and me. That
there had been some communication we must both fear. Not that Sir
Henry wished to find his wife guilty; not that he at all suspected
that he should find her guilty. But he did wish to have her entirely
in his power; and he wished also that Bertram should be altogether
banished from his house.
"George Bertram has been here to-day?" He did not look cruel, or
violent, or threatening as he spoke; but yet there was that in his
eye which was intended to make Caroline tremble. Caroline, however,
did not tremble; but looking up into his face with calm dignity
replied, that Mr. Bertram had called that morning.
"And would you object to telling me what passed between you?"
Caroline still looked him full in the face. He was sitting, but
she had not sat down. She was standing before him, faultless in
demeanour, in posture, and in dress. If it had been his aim to
confound her, he certainly had so far missed his object.
"Would I object to telling you what passed between us? The question
is a very singular one;" and then she paused a moment. "Yes, Sir
Henry, I should object."
"I thought as much," said he.
She still stood before him, perfectly silent; and he sat there,
silent also. He hardly knew how to go on with the interview. He
wanted her to defend herself, but this was the very thing which she
did not intend to do. "May I go now?" she asked, after awhile.
"No; not quite yet. Sit down, Caroline; sit down. I wish to speak to
you. George Bertram has been here, and there has been that between
you of which you are ashamed to speak!"
"I never said so, Sir Henry--nor will I allow you to say so. There
has been that between us to-day which I would rather bury in silence.
But if you command me, I will tell you all."
"Command! you are always talking of commands."
"I have to do so very often. In such marriages as ours they must be
spoken of--must be thought of. If you command me, I will tell you. If
you do not, I will be silent."
Sir Henry hardly knew what answer to make to this. His object was to
frighten his wife. That there had been words between her and George
Bertram of which she, as his wife, would be afraid to tell, he had
been thoroughly convinced. Yet she now offered to repeat to him
everything if he would only desire her to do so; and in making this
offer, she seemed to be anything but afraid.
"Sit down, Caroline." She then sat down just opposite to him. "I
should have thought that you would have felt that, circumstanced as
he, and you, and I are, the intercourse between you and him should
have been of the most restrained kind--should have had in it nothing
of the old familiarity."
"Who brought us again together?"
"I did so; trusting to your judgment and good taste."
"I did not wish to see him. I did not ask him here. I would have
remained at home month after month rather than have met him had I
been allowed my own way."
"Nonsense! Why should you have been so afraid to meet him?"
"Because I love him."
As she said this she still looked into his face fearlessly--we may
almost say boldly; so much so that Sir Henry's eyes almost quailed
before hers. On this she had at any rate resolved, that she would
never quail before him.
But by degrees there came across his brow a cloud that might have
made her quail had she not been bold. He had come there determined
not to quarrel with her. An absolute quarrel with her would not suit
him--would not further his plans, as they were connected with Mr.
Bertram at Hadley. But it might be that he could not fail to quarrel
with her. He was not a man without blood in his veins--without
feelings at his heart. He could have loved her in his way, could she
have been content to love him. Nay, he had loved her; and while she
was the acknowledged possession of another, he had thought that to
obtain her he would have been willing to give up many worldly goods.
Now he had obtained her; and there she sat, avowing to him that she
still loved his unsuccessful rival. It was no wonder that his brow
grew black, despite his own policy.
"And he has been here to-day in order that you might tell him so?"
"He has been here to-day, and I did tell him so," said Caroline,
looking still full up into her husband's eyes. "What brought him here
I cannot say."
"And you tell me this to my face?"
"Well; would you have me tell you a lie? Did I not tell you the same
when you first asked me to marry you? Did I not repeat it to you
again but a week before we were married? Do you think that a few
months could make the difference? Do you think that such months as
these have been could have effaced his memory?"
"And you mean, then, to entertain him as your lover?"
"I mean to entertain him not at all. I mean that he shall never again
enter any house in which I may be doomed to live. You brought him
here; and I--though I knew that the trial would be hard--I thought
that I could bear it. I find that I cannot. My memory is too clear;
my thoughts of other days too vivid; my remorse--"
"Go on, madam; pray go on."
"No, I shall not go on. I have said enough."
"Ah! you said more than that to him when he was here."
"Not half so much."
"Was he not kneeling at your feet?"
"Yes, sir, he did kneel at my feet;" and as she answered the question
she rose up, as though it were impossible for her any longer to sit
in the presence of a man who so evidently had set a spy upon her
actions.
"Well, and what then? Since you are so little ashamed of the truth,
tell it all."
"I am not at all ashamed of the truth. He came to tell me that he was
going--and I bade him go."
"And you allowed him to embrace you--to hold you in his arms--to kiss
you?"
"Ah me! yes--for the last time. He did kiss me. I feel his lips now
upon my brow. And then I told him that I loved him; loved none but
him; could love none other. Then I bade him begone; and he went. Now,
sir, I think you know it all. You seem to have had two accounts of
the interview; I hope they do not disagree?"
"Such audacious effrontery I never witnessed in my life--never heard
of before!"
"What, sir, did you think that I should lie to you?"
"I thought there was some sense of shame left in you."
"Too high a sense of shame for that. I wish you could know it all. I
wish I could tell you the tone of his voice, and the look of his eye.
I wish I could tell you how my heart drooped, and all but fainted, as
I felt that he must leave me for ever. I am a married woman, and it
was needful that he should go." After this there was a slight pause,
and then she added: "Now, Sir Henry, I think you know it all. Now may
I go?"
He rose from his chair and began walking the length of the room,
backwards and forwards, with quick step. As we have before said, he
had a heart in his bosom; he had blood in his veins; he had those
feelings of a man which make the scorn of a beautiful woman so
intolerable. And then she was his wife, his property, his dependent,
his own. For a moment he forgot the Hadley money-bags, sorely as he
wanted them, and the true man spoke out with full, unabated anger.
"Brazen-faced harlot!" he exclaimed, as he passed her in his walk;
"unmitigated harlot!"
"Yes, sir," she answered, in a low tone, coming up to him as she
spoke, laying her hand upon his arm, and looking still full into his
face--looking into it with such a gaze that even he cowered before
her. "Yes, sir, I was the thing you say. When I came to you, and sold
my woman's purity for a name, a house, a place before the world--when
I gave you my hand, but could not give my heart, I was--what you have
said."
"And were doubly so when he stood here slobbering on your neck."
"No, Sir Henry, no. False to him I have been; false to my own sex;
false, very false to my own inner self; but never false to you."
"Madam, you have forgotten my honour."
"I have at any rate been able to remember my own."
They were now standing face to face; and as she said these last
words, it struck Sir Henry that it might be well to take them as a
sign of grace, and to commence from them that half-forgiveness which
would be necessary to his projects.
"You have forgotten yourself, Caroline--"
"Stop a moment, Sir Henry, and let me finish, since you will not
allow me to remain silent. I have never been false to you, I say;
and, by God's help, I never will be--"
"Well, well."
"Stop, sir, and let me speak. I have told you often that I did not
love you. I tell you so now again. I have never loved you--never
shall love you. You have called me now by a base name; and in that I
have lived with you and have not loved you, I dare not say that you
have called me falsely. But I will sin no more."
"What is it you mean?"
"I will not deserve the name again--even from you."
"Nonsense; I do not understand you. You do not know what you are
saying."
"Yes, Sir Henry, I do know well what I am saying. It may be that I
have done you some injury; if so, I regret it. God knows that you
have done me much. We can neither of us now add to each other's
comfort, and it will be well that we should part."
"Do you mean me to understand that you intend to leave me?"
"That is what I intend you to understand."
"Nonsense; you will do no such thing."
"What! would you have us remain together, hating each other,
vilifying each other, calling each other base names as you just now
called me? And do you think that we could still be man and wife? No,
Sir Henry. I have made one great mistake--committed one wretched,
fatal error. I have so placed myself that I must hear myself so
called and bear it quietly; but I will not continue to be so used. Do
you think he would have called me so?"
"Damn him!"
"That will not hurt him. Your words are impotent against him, though
they may make me shudder."
"Do not speak of him, then."
"No, I will not. I will only think of him."
"By heavens! Caroline, your only wish is to make me angry."
"I may go now, I suppose?"
"Go--yes; you may go; I will speak to you to-morrow, when you will be
more cool."
"To-morrow, Sir Henry, I will not speak to you; nor the day
afterwards, nor the day after that. What you may wish to say now
I will hear; but remember this--after what has passed to-day, no
consideration on earth shall induce me to live with you again. In any
other respect I will obey your orders--if I find it possible."
She stayed yet a little while longer, leaning against the table,
waiting to hear whether or no he would answer her; but as he sat
silent, looking before him, but not at her, with his hands thrust
deep into his pockets, she without further words withdrew, and
quietly closed the door after her. As she did so, the faithful John
was seen moving away to the top of the kitchen stairs. She would
hardly have cared had the faithful John been present during the whole
interview.
Sir Henry sat silent for a quarter of an hour, meditating how he
would now play his game. As regarded merely personal considerations,
he was beginning to hate Caroline almost as much as she hated him. A
man does not like to be told by a beautiful woman that every hair of
his head is odious to her, while the very footsteps of another are
music in her ears. Perhaps it does not mend the matter when the hated
man is the husband.
But still Sir Henry wished to keep his wife. It has been quite clear
that Caroline had thrown up her game. She had flattered herself
that she could play it; but the very moment the cards went against
her, she discovered her own weakness and threw them away. Sir Henry
was of a stronger mind, and not so easily disgusted: he would try
yet another deal. Indeed, his stakes were too high to allow of his
abandoning them.
So arousing himself with some exertion, he dressed himself, went out
to dine, hurried down to the House, and before the evening was over
was again the happy, fortunate solicitor-general, fortune's pet, the
Crichton of the hour, the rising man of his day.