RELEASE.
I found my mistress--it was nearly nine o’clock in the evening--in the
parlour playing her thoughts to herself. The room had no light except
that of the street-lamp, which showed her in her light gray dress,
something like a ghost. She turned her head as I opened the door. In
the lamplight I saw her sweet, serious face and her limpid eyes. I
was dragged by ropes to fall at her feet. But I refrained. There was
something to be said first.
‘George,’ she said, ‘you are worried about something. What has
happened?’
There must have been something in my eyes--yet the room was so dark.
Perhaps she could feel in some magnetic way--the way of love--the
presence of emotion. This kind of thought-reading is a branch of the
science which has been too much neglected. It is, unfortunately,
incapable of being put upon any stage, or even illustrated in any
drawing-room. Which is, of course, the reason of this neglect.
‘Isabel,’ I said, ‘you are a witch. Come into the study, and I will
tell you why I am moved.’
The study was also in twilight, the light of the same lamp in the
street falling upon the polished wainscot, and reflected about the
room. My hand touched Isabel’s, and again that temptation fell upon me
to take the girl in my arms and to kiss her, and never to be weary of
that kissing.
‘You promised, George,’ she said, reading my mind a second time. ‘Not
yet--not yet.’
‘I promised, Isabel, only until there was no longer need to keep that
promise.’
‘There is still the need, and greater need than ever. Quiet yourself,
George--I can hear your heart beating. Tell me, or let me go.’
I lit the candles. ‘I am quiet, Isabel.’
‘Now tell me what has happened.’
‘That need, Isabel, exists no longer.’
‘Exists no longer? Is Robert dead?’
‘No, he is living still; but that need exists no longer.’
‘What has happened, then?’
‘Sit down, Isabel. Take a pen and paper. So! Now, write at my
dictation. It is the only act of obedience that I shall ever ask of
you. All the future I shall be your slave. This evening alone I ask you
to obey me.’
She hesitated. Then she sat down.
‘Write: “My dear Robert.”’
‘I am to write to Robert?’
‘You shall hear, if you will be obedient for this one and only
occasion. “My dear Robert”--have you got that?’
‘It looks very odd on paper. This is the first letter I have ever
written to him.’
‘Write: “I learn that you yourself are anxious that our engagement
should be broken off.” Have you got that?’
‘But, George, anxious? Robert anxious? What does this mean?’
‘Finish the letter. “To me it has always been a meaningless engagement,
and really impossible. When you made that promise to me I was only
a schoolgirl, and I was frightened. My only comfort was in thinking
that it was to be a long engagement. I release you from your promise
very willingly. You made a mistake, and you have been too proud to
acknowledge it, though I have never ceased from the beginning to
understand that it was a mistake.--Yours.” What will you be--“yours
sincerely”? That will do. “Isabel.” Have you written it?’
‘Yes, I have written it. But I do not understand it. Does he really and
truly desire his release? Why?’
‘He does, really and truly. But he will never ask you himself. The
release must come from you.’
‘You have not told me why. Is Robert going to be engaged to someone
else?’
‘Perhaps. You are not jealous? But of course not. How could you be
jealous? I think it is very likely that he will be engaged before long.’
‘No,’ she smiled. ‘I have no right to be jealous. He never loved me. I
never cared enough about him to be jealous. His engagement was just a
part of his kindness. It gave him the right to maintain us without the
appearance of almsgiving. No, George, I am not jealous.’
‘At present he could not afford to marry, unless it was some woman with
money. He understands, however, that he has no right to bind you any
longer to a loveless engagement. He says he has had no time to make
love. If he marries, it should be to some woman of political influence,
and with political friends, who would advance him.’
‘He never thinks of anything at all but his own advancement. I wonder
if he has a heart somewhere hidden away?’
‘He has plenty of heart, Isabel, if you can get at it. The misfortune
in your case was that while he was here the business of his own
advancement did occupy all his soul, and all his strength, and all his
mind, and all his heart. The ground is cleared now, and he has begun
his march. The rest is easy, and now is the time for the flowers of
passion to show themselves and to expand. We may look to see strange
things before long.’ With such shallow humbug did I attempt to veil the
truth. But in vain. Women’s minds are swift and far-shooting.
‘There must be another woman,’ she said thoughtfully, and not in the
least jealously; ‘otherwise he would not have considered the question
of his engagement at all. Why should he? I am hidden away down here:
he was not going to marry me for years--any number of years. He never
writes to me; he takes no notice of me; his engagement did not make
the least difference to him. Yet he suddenly expresses his wish to be
released. Well, George, he shall be released. About that other woman
you will tell me what you please.’
Therefore I told her all.
‘Robert in love!’ she laughed gently. ‘I cannot understand it. Will
he tell her, as he told me, that there is to be no foolishness of
fondling?’
‘I don’t think he will, Isabel.’
She heaved a deep sigh. ‘I have worked for him,’ she said, ‘for five
long years--you will never understand how long those years have been.
He is a hard master; he expects the best work always; no one must be
tired or sick or weak who works for him.’
‘A hard master indeed.’
‘And never a word of praise or approbation. Oh, George! I have longed
for a word of kindness. It was dreadful to be engaged to a man who was
only a master all the time. Never a word of kindness would he give me.’
‘He was absorbed, Isabel; he thought of nothing but the work--never
anything of the people who helped in the work.’
‘What was the work? What did he intend? He never told me. I was like a
man blindfolded dragging a heavy cart along a road that led whither he
knew not. Well, he wants his release; he shall have it,’ she repeated.
‘Since he wants that, Isabel, forgive him all the rest.’
‘I have forgiven him, George. I have forgiven him since you
came--and--and--and since my heart was softened.’ The tears rose to her
eyes.
‘Isabel!’
‘Are you sure, George, that he desires his release?’
‘Quite sure. Robert knows that I have come this evening with the
intention of asking you for it.’
‘Then I will write him a longer letter than this.’ She tore up the
little note that I had dictated, and wrote another and a much longer
letter. ‘I shall not suffer my loveless lover, my patient bridegroom,
to depart without a little explanation. I am glad--oh, so glad!--to be
released. But, still, no one likes to be told to go without a little
understanding of things.’
It was certainly a much finer letter than mine. But then, you see, I
was thinking of nothing but the release, and Isabel was thinking of
what the man had done for her.
‘DEAR ROBERT’ (she wrote),
‘George tells me that the time has come when you desire the
termination of our engagement, entered upon by you out of pity.
You wanted an excuse for maintaining two penniless people--one of
them helpless, and the second too young and ignorant to be of much
use. I understand now exactly why you forced this engagement upon
yourself without any thought of love. That was four years ago. I was
then seventeen, and am now one-and-twenty. During this long time I
have looked for any word of interest, for any look of affection from
you. No such word or look have I ever received from you. It has been
quite plain to me, all along, that you had no kind of love for me. I
could not tell you this--partly because we owe you so much that we
must always do whatever you desire; partly because it is hard for a
woman to say such things; and partly because I was afraid. That you
should release me, therefore, is a great relief to me. It must be
unhappiness enough for a woman to marry a man whom she does not love:
it must be far worse if that man does not even pretend to love her.
‘You are quite free, Robert. You have lifted a great weight from my
heart. You will be far happier yourself without the fetters of an
engagement which had proved impossible. You must marry a woman who
will help you in your ambitions. This I could never do, and when you
become a great and famous man you will be pleased to remember that
you released one who would feel no pride in your success, and could
take no part in your ambition. And so I am always, and just as much
as ever, your grateful and obedient servant, clerk, and housekeeper,
but never your bride,
‘ISABEL.’
I took the letter and placed it in an envelope. It was done. Robert had
got his release, and Isabel was free.
‘Oh, my love!’ I cried, and held out my arms.
‘Oh! No--George!’ She shrank back. ‘Not so soon. Oh! I am like a
newly-made widow, but I am full of joy. Is it right? Oh! George--so
soon!’
‘Isabel! At last! At last!’