If a woman sins, and the chronicler of her sin desires to excuse the
woman, her throes and her struggles, her pangs and her prayers always
occupy at least three chapters. If one does not seek to excuse her, the
fact of her fall may as well be stated in the fewest possible words.
Mamie did struggle--she struggled for a long time--but in the end she
was just as guilty as if she hadn't shed a tear. Field's pertinacity
and passion wore her resistance out at last. Theirs was to be the ideal
union, and of course he cited famous cases where the man and woman
designed for each other by Heaven had met only after one of them had
blundered. He did not explain why Heaven had permitted the blunders,
after being at the pains to design kindred souls for each other's
ecstasy; but there are things that even the youngest curate cannot
explain. He insisted that she would never regret her step; he declared
that, with himself for her husband, she would become celebrated. Art,
love, joy, all might be hers at a word. And she spoke it.
When Heriot came in one evening, Mamie was not there, and he wondered
what had become of her, for at this hour she was always at home. But he
had not a suspicion of evil--he was as far from being prepared for the
blow that was in store as if Field had never crossed their path. He had
let himself in with his latch-key, and after a quarter of an hour it
occurred to him that she might be already in the dining-room. When he
entered it, he noted with surprise that the table was laid only for one.
"Where is Mrs. Heriot?" he said to the servant who appeared in response
to his ring.
"Mrs. Heriot has gone out of town, sir."
"Out of town!" he exclaimed. "What do you mean?"
"Mrs. Heriot left a note for you, sir, to explain. There it is, sir."
Heriot took it from the mantelpiece quickly; but still he had no
suspicion--not an inkling of the truth. He tore the envelope open and
read, while the maid waited respectfully by the door.
"Your mistress has been called away," he said when he had finished;
"illness! She will be gone some time."
His back was to her; he could command his voice, but his face was
beyond his control. He felt that if he moved he would reel, perhaps
fall. He stood motionless, with the letter open in his hand.
"Shall I serve dinner, sir?"
"Yes, serve dinner, Odell; I'm quite ready."
When the door closed, it was his opportunity to gain the chair; he
walked towards it slowly, like a blind man. The letter that he held
had left but one hope possible--the last hope of despair--to keep the
matter for awhile from the servants' knowledge. As yet he was not
suffering acutely; indeed, in these early moments, the effect of the
shock was more physical than mental. There was a trembling through his
body, and his head felt queerly light--empty, not his own.
The maid came back, and he forced himself to dine. The first spoonfuls
of the soup he took were but heat, entirely tasteless, to his mouth,
and at the pit of his stomach a sensation of sickness rose and writhed
like something living. When she retired once more, his head fell
forward on his arms; it was a relief to rest it so. He did not know how
he could support the long strain of her vigilance.
By degrees his stupor began to pass, as he stared at the vacant
place where his wife should have sat; the dazed brain rallied to
comprehension. His wife was not there because she was with her
lover! Oh, God! with her "lover"--Mamie had given herself to another
man! _Mamie!_ Mamie had gone to another man. His face was grey and
distorted now, and the glass that he was lifting snapped at the stem.
She had gone. She was no longer his wife. She was guilty, shameless,
defiled--Mamie!
He rose, an older, a less vigorous, figure.
"I shall be busy to-night," he muttered; "don't let me be disturbed."
He went to his study, and dropped upon the seat before his desk. Her
photograph confronted him, and he took it down and held it shakenly.
How young she looked! was there ever a face more pure? And Heaven knew
that he had loved her as dearly only an hour ago as on the day that
they were married! Not a whim of hers had been refused; not a request
could he recollect that he had failed to obey. Yet now she was with a
lover! She smiled in the likeness; the eyes that met his own were clear
and tender; truth was stamped upon her features. He recalled incidents
of the past three years, incidents that had been rich in the intimacy
of their life. Surely in those hours she had loved him? That had not
been gratitude--a sense of duty merely?--had she not loved him then? He
remembered their wedding-day. How pale she had been, how innocent--a
child. Yet now she was with a lover! A sob convulsed him, and he nodded
slowly at the likeness through his tears. Presently he put it back;
he was angered at his weakness. He had deserved something better at
her hands! Pride forbade that he should mourn for her. He had married
wildly, yes, he should have listened to advice; Francis had warned him.
Perhaps while he wept, they were laughing at him together, she and
Field! How did he know that it was Field--had she mentioned his name
in the letter? He knew that it was Field instinctively; he marvelled
that he had not foreseen the danger, and averted it. How stupid had the
petitioners in divorce suits often appeared to him in his time!--he
had wondered that men could be so purblind--and he himself had been as
dense as any!... But she would not laugh. Ah, guilty as she was, she
would not laugh--she was not so vile as that! The clock in the room
struck one. He heard it half unconsciously--then started, and threw
out his arms with a hoarse cry. He sprang to his feet, fired with the
tortures of the damned. The sweat burst out on him, and the veins in
his forehead swelled like cords. He was a temperate man, at once by
taste and by necessity, but now he walked to where the brandy was kept
and drank a wineglassful in gulps. "Mamie!" he groaned again; "Mamie!"
The brandy did not blot the picture from his brain; and he refilled the
glass.... Nothing would efface the picture.
He knew that it was hopeless to attempt to sleep, yet he went to the
bedroom. The ivory brushes were gone from the toilet-table--she had
been able to think of brushes! In the wardrobe the frocks were fewer,
and the linen was less; the jewellery that he had given to her had
been left behind. All was orderly. There were no traces of a hurried
departure; the room had its usual aspect. He looked at the pillows.
Against the one that had been hers lay the bag of silk and lace that
contained her night-dress. Had she forgotten it; or was it that she had
been incapable of transferring that? He picked it up, and dropped it
out of sight in one of the drawers.
He did not go to bed; he spent the night in an armchair, re-reading
the letter, and thinking. When the servant knocked at the door, he
went to his dressing-room, and shaved. He had a bath, and breakfasted,
and strolled to the station. Outwardly he had recovered from the blow,
and his clerk who gave him his list of appointments remarked nothing
abnormal about him. In court, Heriot remembered that Mamie and he were
to have dined in Holland Park that evening, and during the luncheon
adjournment he sent a telegram of excuse. If any one had known what had
happened to him, he would have been thought devoid of feeling.
He had scarcely re-entered the flat when Mrs. Baines called. His first
impulse was to decline to see her; but he told the maid to show her in.
A glance assured him that she was ignorant of what had occurred.
"Dear Mamie is away, the servant tells me," she said, simpering. "I
hadn't seen her for such a long time that I thought I'd look in to-day.
Not that I should have been so late, but I missed my train! I meant to
come in and have a cup of tea with her at five o'clock. Well, I _am_
unfortunate! And how have you been keeping, Mr. Heriot?"
"I'm glad to see you. I hope you are well, Mrs. Baines."
"Where has dear Mamie gone?" she asked. "Pleasuring?"
"She is on the Continent, I believe. May I tell them to bring you some
tea now?"
"On the Continent alone?" exclaimed Mrs. Baines. "Fancy!"
"No, she is not alone," said Heriot. "You must prepare yourself for a
shock, Mrs. Baines. Your niece has left me."
She looked at him puzzled. His tone was so composed that it seemed to
destroy the significance of his words.
"Left you? How do you mean?"
"She has gone with her lover."
"Oh, my Gawd!" said Mrs. Baines.... "Whatever are you saying, Mr.
Heriot? Don't!"
"Your niece is living with another man. She left me yesterday," he
continued quietly. "I am sorry to have to tell you such news."
He was sorrier as he observed the effect of it, but he could not soften
the shock for her by any outward participation in her grief. Since he
must speak at all, he must speak as he did.
"Oh, to hear of such a thing!" she gasped. "Oh, to think
that--well---- Oh, Mr. Heriot, I can't ... it can't be true. Isn't
it some mistake? Dear Mamie would never be so wicked, I'm sure she
wouldn't! It's some awful mistake, you may depend."
"There's no mistake, Mrs. Baines. My authority is your niece herself.
She left a letter to tell me she was going, and why."
The widow moaned feebly.
"With another man?"
He bowed.
"Oh, Heaven will punish her, Mr. Heriot! Oh, what will her father
say--how could she do it! And you--how gentle and kind to her you were
_I_ could see."
"I did my best to make her happy," he said; "evidently I didn't
succeed. Is it necessary for us to talk about it much? Believe me, you
have my sympathy, but talking won't improve matters."
"Oh, but I can't look at it so--so calmly, Mr. Heriot! The disgrace!
and so sudden. And it isn't for _me_ to have _your_ sympathy, I'm sure.
I say it isn't for _you_ to sympathise with _me_. My heart bleeds for
you, Mr. Heriot."
"You're very good," he answered; "but I don't know that a faithless
wife is much to grieve for after all."
"Ah, but you don't mean that! you were too fond of her to mean it.
She'll live to repent it, you may be certain--the Lord will bring it
home to her. Oh, how could she do it! You don't--you don't intend to
have a divorce?"
"Naturally I intend it. What else do you propose?"
"Oh, I don't know," she quavered, rocking herself to and fro, and
smearing the tears down her cheeks with a forefinger in a black silk
glove; "but the disgrace! And all Lavender Street to read about it! Ah,
you won't divorce her, Mr. Heriot? It would be so dreadful!"
"Don't you want to see the man marry her?"
"How 'marry her'?" she asked vaguely. "Oh, I understand! Yes, I suppose
he _could_ marry her then, couldn't he? I'm not a lawyer like you--I
didn't look so far ahead. But I don't want a divorce."
"Ah, well, _I_ want it," he said; "for my own sake."
"Then you don't love her any more, Mr. Heriot?"
He laughed drearily.
"Your niece has ended her life with me of her own accord. I've nothing
more to do with her."
"Those are cruel words," said Mrs. Baines; "those are cruel words about
a girl who was your lawful wife--the flesh of your bone in the sight
of Gawd and man. You're harder than I thought, Mr. Heriot; you don't
take it quite as I'd have supposed you'd take it.... So quiet and stern
like! I think if you'd loved her tenderly, you'd have talked more
heart-broken, though it's not for me to judge."
Heriot rose.
"I can't discuss my sentiments with you, Mrs. Baines. Think, if you
like, that I didn't care for her at all. At least my duty to her is
over; and I have a duty to myself to-day."
"To cast her off?" The semi-educated classes use the phrases of
novelettes habitually. Whether this is the reason the novelettes trade
in the phrases, or whether the semi-educated acquire the phrases from
the novelettes, is not clear.
"To----" He paused. He could not trust himself to speak at that moment.
"To cast her off?" repeated Mrs. Baines. "Oh, I don't make excuses for
her--I don't pity her. Though she is my brother's child, I say she
is deserving of whatever befalls her. I remember well that when Dick
married I warned him against it; I said, 'She isn't the wife for you!'
It's the mother's blood coming out in her, though my brother's child.
But ... What was I going to say? I'm that upset that---- Oh yes! I make
no excuses for her, but I would have liked to see more sorrow on your
part, Mr. Heriot; I could have pitied you more if you'd have taken it
more to heart. You may think me too bold, but it was ever my way to
say what was in my mind. I don't think I'll stop any longer. The way
you may take it is between you and your Gawd, but----" She put out her
hand. "I don't think I'll stop."
"Good-evening," he said stonily. "I'm sorry you can't stay and dine."
She recollected on the stairs that she had not inquired who the man
was; but she was too much disgusted by Heriot's manner to go back.