Six months wore themselves away; six months in every day of which
John Chetwynd lived a year, measured by the anxiety and misery it
held for him. He could no longer delude himself into the belief that
Bella loved him, for all her actions went to prove the contrary. But
her end just once gained, there were no more bickerings and
disputes--she even condescended to consider her husband's wishes,
when they did not clash or interfere with her own. But night after
night he sat alone with the hateful consciousness that the woman who
bore his name was parading her charms to Dick, Tom and Harry; in
fact, to anybody who chose to pay his shilling for the privilege of
contemplating them. It was in moments such as these that the iron
entered his soul and there was no escape from it; he must bear his
burden as many a better man had borne it before him. And thus it was
he buried himself in his profession, working with a will and vigour
that astonished no one so much as himself. He was rapidly becoming a
popular man. Through sheer good luck (as he really believed it to be)
he had diagnosed one or two cases with an ease and accuracy which not
only filled his purse beyond his utmost expectations, but helped him
up the ladder of fame at an amazing rate. But when emboldened by
success, and always remembering the fact that however wilful and
oblivious she might be, she was still to all intents and purposes the
wife of his bosom and equally interested with himself in all his
undertakings, he recounted his triumphs and declared his intention of
leaving Camberwell forthwith and settling in Camelot Square, Bella
smiled, yet proved in no way elated at the intelligence.
"So, my dear, you can go as soon as you like and fix upon a house,"
he said.
Bella yawned and stretched her arms above her head.
"Oh, you will know much better than I what is required," she replied.
"Have you, then, no interest in our new home?" he asked, more hurt
than he could well have expressed.
"Do you ever show the slightest interest in what concerns me?" she
retorted.
He winced. "This is a mutual interest, surely, since we must occupy
it together."
"Must?" she echoed dreamily.
"What do you mean?" he asked sharply.
"Nothing, except that 'must' is the word I have banished from my
vocabulary," and she smiled at him--actually smiled, though she must
have known she was stabbing him to the very heart.
He said no more; and indeed, words seemed to be useless.
So he chose the house himself,--one that could not fail to please
Bella, he felt exultantly. She would be less than woman if she were
not glad to exchange the second-rate little dwelling in the
Camberwell New Road for the substantial residence, with its modern
improvements and embellishments in such a neighbourhood as Camelot
Square.
It was not perhaps a palace, but it was a very great deal more
imposing than anything they had dreamt of in the early days of their
married life, and yet John Chetwynd told himself with a sigh that he
would gladly give up fame and prosperity to win back the old
love-light in his wife's eyes.
And there are some among us who cannot love for so little--"Of man's
love a thing apart." Perhaps John Chetwynd would have been a happier
man had he been one of these.
Even the task of furnishing fell to the doctor's lot. Bella did not
refuse, nor did she object to accompany him on what he might have
naturally supposed would be a congenial task for her, but she showed
herself so indifferent throughout that, after an effort or two to
make her contented, he gave it up, and it ended in his carrying the
whole thing through himself.
And he was not sorry when at length it was completed. On the morrow
he would bring Bella to her new home.
He stood under the bright lighted chandelier and looked round him.
The carpet was thick and soft. Bella liked carpets her feet could
sink into, she had once said. There by the fireplace was the most
luxurious easy chair he could purchase, upholstered in her favourite
colour, pale blue. He pictured the dainty figure nestling in it, and
a little glow stirred at his heart. After all, she was his wife, his
fondly loved wife, and who could tell? Perhaps with the old life, old
feuds would die out and with the new, joy and happiness dawn for them
both once more.
John Chetwynd was not a religious man; he rarely went to church and
he never prayed; but now he covered his face with his hands, and his
lips moved inaudibly.
He was asking for a blessing on the new life, and there was something
like a tear in his eye and a suspicious huskiness in his voice as he
called out "Come in" in answer to a hurried knock at the door and
flung open the lid of a grand piano which was littered with music and
songs, running his hands over the keys and smiling a little.
The piano was to be a surprise: Bella knew nothing about it.
Perhaps it would keep her more at home, for she was very fond of
music.
It had cost more than he ought to have paid, but still it was for
her.
"Come in, Mrs. Brewer--what is it? I'm just off. You will have us
both here to-morrow at this time for good and all, I hope."
"Indeed, sir, and I'm glad to hear it. Things do look most beautiful,
and no mistake."
The good soul shambled across the floor and held out a letter wrapped
in the corner of her apron.
"A boy brought it, sir, half an hour ago, but I clean forgot it, and
that's a fact."
"Never mind. It is probably of no importance."
But it was. By-and-by his eyes fell on it as it lay where Mrs.
Brewer's hard-working fingers had placed it, on the edge of a little
gaily-lined work table destined to hold Bella Chetwynd's cotton and
needles, and to his astonishment he observed it was in his wife's
handwriting.
Ah! written just before she started for the----.He caught it up and
tore it open. The next instant it fluttered from his hold.
For fully ten seconds John Chetwynd sat spell-bound, and then he
broke into a laugh--mirthless, hollow.
"And I prayed to my God to send his blessing on--our--future," he
said in a dull, mechanical manner. "Well, the last act is played out
and they may ring the curtain down. From to-night I believe neither
in woman, Heaven, nor hell, save that which each man makes for
himself."
Bella had turned her shapely back on the apotheosis of respectability
for a life of excitement and the protection of another man. Nobody
was surprised but John himself.
Everybody had predicted it months ago. The only astonishing feature
of the scandal was, that it had not occurred before.
The one other thing people found surprising was the callousness with
which the injured husband took it.
It had always been believed that what love there was, was on his
side, but now--
Well, it is indeed an ill wind that blows us no good. If notoriety
was what John Chetwynd desired, he got it in full measure, well
pressed down and brimming over; his waiting room was besieged, for
many patients flocked there, wide eyed in scrutiny, martyrs to
symptoms discovered or invented for the occasion.
Of course he would divorce her. And he did.
In due course he obtained his decree _nisi_, which later on was made
absolute.
Bella's picture no longer stared him in the face from every hoarding,
and the newspaper advertisements knew her no more. She had gone back
to the States, and by-and-by was forgotten on this side the Atlantic.
Now and then he was disagreeably reminded of her existence.
Once in the Club a young fellow to whom Chetwynd was personally
unknown stretched himself behind a newspaper and muttered, "Bella
Blackall Wasn't that the name of Dr. Somebody's wife who ran away
with another fellow?"
"Yes, Bella Blackall was my wife," John Chetwynd answered with
unruffled equanimity, picking up the paper which the other had thrown
down. "She used to be rather a clever dancer, too."
And he calmly perused the line which included her name among some
well known American stars touring in the provinces.
"And he never turned a grizzled hair! I give you my word I felt more
over the thing than he did," remarked Captain Hetherington
afterwards; "without exception the most cold-blooded individual ever
met."
But John Chetwynd was far from being this. He had felt his wife's
desertion far too deeply to show his scars, nor was he a man to wear
his heart upon his sleeve; but as time went by and the utter
callousness of Bella's conduct came home to him, he realised to the
full that she was unworthy of a single pang, and he became reconciled
to the inevitable. His profession claimed every spare moment, and for
a man ill at ease there is no specific like hard work. By-and-by as
the years rolled on, another distraction presented itself. He became
interested in one of his patients, the only daughter of the Duke of
Huddersfield, Lady Ethel Claremont, and this interest blossomed into
something stronger and warmer--something that at last he dignified by
the name of love, though he was by no means without misgivings as to
whether it could ever really lay claim to the title.
Certain it was that there was no more of the old exultation about his
heart that had formed so large a part of his former courtship; there
were no extravagances, no quickened pulses--rapture's warmth had
yielded to the mildest of after-glows; but there was no reason that
it should not prove as satisfactory in the long run. It is an open
question whether the doctor, popular though he undoubtedly was, would
have been considered an eligible suitor from the maternal point of
view, had it not been that just about this time fortune elected to
bestow another favour upon him; his career had reached its apex, and
(again through sheer good luck, as John Chetwynd modestly declared)
he was offered a baronetcy.
Now, every man is flattered and gratified that his merits should be
recognised, and Chetwynd was no exception to the general rule, but
there were a good many bitters mingled with the sweets, and the
hidden thorn among the rose-leaves had a nasty trick of obtruding
itself. This step in social advancement materially helped his cause
with Lady Ethel, and the Duchess of Huddersfield deigned to smile
graciously upon her future son-in-law.
Ethel Claremont was an excellent girl, precisely the type he ought to
marry. Decorous, with an ease and repose about her manner that were
eminently patrician, she would be even more admirable as a wife than
as a _fiancée_, but he could have found it in him to wish that she
were just a little less faultless, a little more "human," he would
have said, only that the word has not a pleasant ring; yet it was not
easy to substitute another unless it were "womanly."
"Pshaw!" he cried angrily, "who am I that I should be exacting, with
such a past, such a history? and yet I am ready to quarrel with
perfection, I who can never be grateful enough! A little wealth and
the love of a charming woman--what more can I possibly desire? It is
strange how soon one becomes accustomed to changes in life, and how
quickly an emotion fades into a memory. If I could but feel as I felt
when I was struggling along battling with the hundred and one
difficulties which beset the path of a poor man, instead of having to
remind myself perpetually what my emotions were then, there would be
some excitement in the contrast. I--I wonder--what she is doing? Is
she alive or is she dead? What does it matter? But at times the doubt
will come whether--no, no; it is wicked--I was always good to her. I
loved her, and she dishonoured me. The book is closed for ever, and I
am weak when I reopen it."