MAN AND WIFE
"This," said Walter Clarges, as he thrust open the door, "has been my
home for the last four years. You will find it comfortable enough, I
hope. Let me assist you to remove your cloak and hood."
It was a large room into which he led his newly-married wife, situated
on the ground floor of an old street, the Rue de la Dauphine, in the
Quartier St. Germain. A room in which a wood fire burnt on this cold
wintry day, and which was furnished sufficiently well--far more so,
indeed, than were the habitations of most of the English refugees in
Paris after the "'15." The furniture, if old and solid, was good of
its kind; there were a number of tables and chairs and a huge lounge,
an excellent Segoda carpet on the floor, and a good deal of that
silver placed about, against the sale of which, for gambling purposes,
a strangely stringent law had just been passed in France. On the walls
there were some pictures--one of an English country house, another of
a horse, a third of a lady.
"That is my mother," Clarges said. "My mother! Shall I ever see her
again? God knows!"
She, following him with her eyes as he moved about the room, could
think only of one thing; of the nobility of the sacrifice he had made
for her that morning; the sacrifice of his life. He had married her
because it was the only way to save her from Desparre, the only legal
bar he could place between her and her uncle's desire to sell her to
the best bidder who had appeared. The law, passed by the late King,
which accorded to fathers and guardians the total right to dispose of
the hands of their female children and wards, was terrible in its
power; there was no withstanding it. Nothing but a previous marriage
could save those children and wards, and, even if that marriage had
taken place clandestinely, the law punished it heavily. But, punish
severely as it might, it could not undo the marriage. That stood
against all.
"Oh! Monsieur Clarges," Laure exclaimed, as she sat by the side of his
great fire, the cloak removed from her shoulders, her hood off, and
her beautiful hair, unspoilt by any wig, looped up behind her head.
"Oh! Monsieur Clarges, now it is finished I reproach myself bitterly
with the wrong I have performed against you. I--I----"
"I beseech you," he said, coming back to where she sat, and standing
in front of her. "I beseech you not to do so. What has been done has
been my own thought; my own suggestion. And you will remember that,
when I asked you to be my wife a year ago and you refused, I told you
that, if you would accept me, I would never force my love on you
further than in desiring that I might serve you. The chance has come
for me to do so--I thank God it has come!--I have had my opportunity.
Whatever else may happen, I have been enabled to save you from the
terrible fate you dreaded."
He stood as he spoke against the great mantel-shelf, gazing down at
her, and she, while looking up at him in turn, recognised how great
was the nobility of this man. She saw, too, and she wondered now why
it struck her for the first time--struck her as it had never done
before--that he was one who should have but little difficulty in
gaining a woman's love if he desired it. She had always known that he
was possessed of good looks, was well-made and graceful, and had
clear-cut, handsome features. Now--perhaps because of what he had done
for her that day, because he had wrecked his existence to save
hers--hers! the existence of an abandoned child, a nameless woman--and
had placed a barrier between him and the love of some honest woman who
would make a home and happiness for him, she thought he seemed more
than good-looking; indeed, he almost seemed in her eyes superb in his
dignity and manliness. And she asked herself, "Why, why could she not
have given him the love he craved for? Why not?"
"There was," she said aloud and speaking slowly, while, with her hands
before her on her knees, she twined her fingers together. "There was
no just reason why you should have made this sacrifice for me. I--I
refused to give the love you craved, therefore you were absolved from
all consideration of me. I had no claim on you--no part nor share in
your life. Oh! Monsieur," she broke off, "why tempt me with so noble
an opportunity of escape from my impending fate; why tempt me to avail
myself of so great a surrender by you of all that could make life
dear? Especially since I have told you!--thank God, I told you!--that
I am a nameless woman. That I have no past."
"Hush," he said. "Hush, I beseech you. I loved you a year ago, and I
made my offer--even proffered my terms. You would not accept those
terms then; yet, because the offer was made, I have kept to it. Do you
think the story of your unacknowledged birth and parentage could cause
me to alter? Nay!--if I have saved you, I am content."
Still she looked up at him standing there; still, as she gazed at him
who had become her husband, she felt almost appalled at the
magnanimity of his nature. How far above her was this man whose
love she had refused; how great the nobleness of his sacrifice!
And--perhaps, because she was a woman--even as he spoke to her she
noticed that he never mentioned the love which had prompted him to the
sacrifice as being in the present, but always as having been in the
past. "I loved you last year," he had said once; not, "I love you."
"Now," he went on, seating himself in a chair opposite to her on the
other side of the great fireplace. "Now, let us talk of the future. Of
what we must do. This is what I purpose."
She raised her eyes from the fire again and looked at him, wondering
if he was about to suggest that their life should be arranged upon the
ordinary lines of a marriage brought about on the principles of
expediency; and, although she knew it not, there was upon her
beautiful face a glance which testified that her curiosity was
aroused.
Then he went on.
"You know," he said, "that my own country is closed to me. For such as
I, who, although little more than twenty at the time--for such as
those who were out with the Earl of Mar--there is no return to
England, in spite of the Elector having pardoned many. Nor, indeed,
would I have it so. We Clarges have been followers of the Royal House
always. My grandfather fell fighting against Fairfax and the Puritans;
my father was abroad with King Charles II., and returned with him; I
and my elder brother fought for the present King whom, across the
water, they term 'The Pretender.'" He paused a moment, then said, "I
pray I may not weary you. But, without these explanations, the
future--our future--can scarce be provided for."
"Go on," she said, very gently. Whereupon he continued. "England is
consequently closed to me--for ever. After to-day's work it may be
that France will be, too--and then----"
"France, too!" she repeated, startled, "France, too! and 'after
to-day's work.' Oh!" and she made a motion as though to rise from her
chair, "what do your words mean? Tell me. Tell me."
Her suddenly aroused anxiety surprised him somewhat; he wondered,
seeing it, if she feared that, even now, the relief against her fate
which he had provided her with was not sufficient; if still she feared
other troubles. Then, with a slight smile, he continued.
"I mean that--forgive me if I have to say so--I may be called to
account for my share in saving you from the Duc Desparre. He is a
powerful man--a favourite with the Regent and the Court--he may
endeavour to revenge himself. I have seen an advocate; I took his
advice yesterday so that what I did this morning I might do with my
eyes open, and there is no possible doubt that I have committed an
offence against the law in marrying a ward contrary to her guardian's
will, for which I may be punished."
"Oh!" she gasped. "Oh! this, too," and he saw that she had grown very
pale, whereupon he hastened to comfort her. "I beseech you," he said,
"have no fear. You are, so the advocate tells me, perfectly free from
any danger; nothing can happen to you----"
"Monsieur!" she cried. Then, under her breath, she muttered, "So be
it! He imagines I fear only for myself. Alas! it is not strange he
should."
As she spoke no more after that exclamation, he continued:
"Therefore, since France is now, perhaps, no longer likely to be more
of a home to me than England, this is what I have decided to do. To
leave France for ever--to find another home in another land. To begin
a new life."
"To begin a new life! Yes?"
"Yes. A new life. As you know--who can help but know if they have been
in France during the last year or so!--this country is colonising
largely in America; there are great prospects for those who choose to
go to the Mississippi; Louisiana is being peopled by the French;
emigrants, planters are called for largely. If I go there, it is not
at all probable that Desparre's vengeance will follow me; nay, a
willing colonist can even get exemption for his sins committed in
France. I intend to take steps for proceeding to the new world as soon
as may be."
She bent her head as though to signify that she heard all he said,
yet, even as she did so, there coursed again through her brain the
thought of how she had blasted this man's life. She was driving him
forth to a place of which she had heard the most terrible accounts, a
place overrun by savages who disputed every inch of their native
ground against the white man--sometimes, too, with other white men for
their allies--the very countrymen of him who sat before her. Of
herself she thought not at all; if he could endure the hardships that
must be faced, why, she, his wife, could endure them--must endure
them--too. She--but his voice aroused her from her thoughts, and it
showed that for her, at least, there was no likelihood of such
endurance being required.
"I intend," he was saying, "to take steps for proceeding there as soon
as may be. But, ere I go, your welfare has to be consulted--provided
for. This is what I purpose doing," while, as he spoke, he rose and
went towards a large, firmly-locked bureau that stood in one corner of
the room, and came back bearing in his hand a small iron box which he
proceeded to open. "This," he said, with a smile that seemed to her as
she watched him to be a terribly weary one, "contains all that I have
left in the world, except what my mother contrives at various periods
to furnish me with. It is not much now--but something. There are some
four thousand livres here; enough to provide you with your subsistence
for the time being; to assist you in doing what I wish--what I think
best for you to do."
"What," she asked, still with her eyes fixed on him, "is that?"
"It would be best," he continued, "that, when I am gone, you should
endeavour to make your way to England--to my mother. I shall write to
her at once telling her that I am married, that my future necessitates
my going to Louisiana, and that, out of her love for me, her last
remaining child--for my brother is dead--she will receive you as her
daughter. And she will do it, I know; she will greet you warmly as my
wife. Only," and now his voice sank very low, was very gentle, as he
continued, "one thing I must ask. It is that you do not undeceive her
about--the--condition we stand in to one another--that, for her
sake--she is old, and I am very dear to her--you will let her
suppose--that--there is love--some love, at least--between us. If you
will so far consent as to grant me this, it is all--the only demand--I
will ever make of you."
He lifted his eyes towards where she sat, not having dared to glance
at her while he made his request, but they did not meet hers in
return. Unseen by him, she had raised her hood as a screen to the side
of her face which was nearest to the logs; that, and her white hand,
now hid her features from him. He could not see aught but that hand.
Yet she had to speak, to make some answer to his request, and, a
moment later, she said from behind her hand in a voice that sounded
strangely changed to him:
"As you bid me I will do. All that you desire shall be carried out."
Then, for a moment, no further word was said by either. Presently he
spoke again. "Desparre is paid what I owe him--what I lost at play. It
will reach him by a safe hand at about the same time he learns that
you are--my wife, not his. And I owe no money now in Paris. All is
paid; during the past two days I have settled my affairs. As for these
apartments, when you desire to set out, do what you will with all that
they contain, excepting only those," and he pointed to the pictures of
the country house, the horse, and his mother. "Those I should not
desire to part with. I will take them with me to a friend. Now, I will
summon the concierge; she has orders to attend to all your wants."
She rose as he spoke and turned towards him, and he saw that there was
no colour left in her face; that, in truth, she was deathly pale. Her
eyes, too, he thought were dim--perhaps, from some feeling of regard
or gratitude which might have been awakened in her--and as she spoke
her voice trembled.
"Is this then," she asked, "our parting? Our last farewell?"
"Nay. Nay," he said, "not now. Though it will be very soon. But I
shall not leave Paris yet. Some trouble might arise; your uncle may
endeavour to regain possession of you--though that he cannot do, since
you are a married woman and have your lines. I shall stay near you for
some days; I shall even be in this house should you require me. Have
no fear. You will be quite safe. And, when I am assured that all is
well with you, we will part; but not before."
He went towards the hall to ring for the woman, but, ere he could
cross to where it was, she stopped him with a motion of her hand.
"Stay," she said, "stay. Let me speak now. Monsieur--my husband--I
have heard every word that has fallen from your lips. Monsieur, I
think you are the noblest man to whom ever woman plighted her troth--a
troth, alas! that, as she gave it, she had no thought of carrying out.
Oh!" she exclaimed, raising her eyes, "God forgive me for having
accepted this man's sacrifice. God forgive me."
Then, in a moment, before he had time to form the slightest suspicion
that she meditated any such thing, she had flung herself at his feet,
and, with hands clasped before her, was beseeching him also to pardon
her for having wrecked his life. But, gentle as ever, he raised her
from the ground and placed her again in the seat she had left,
beseeching her not to distress herself.
"Remember this," he said; "what I did I did out of the love I bore you
when first I sought yours; remember that, though you had no love in
your heart to give me, I had plighted my faith to you. Remember that
my duty is pledged to you; that, if I prosper, as I hope to do, you
shall prosper too. Or, better still, if in years to come this yoke
which you took upon yourself galls too much, and you have no longer
any need of it, we will find means to break it. I will find means to
set you free."
"To--set--me--free!" she repeated slowly.
"Yes. Now I will go and seek the concierge. Then I will leave you
until to-morrow. You will, as I have said, be perfectly safe
here--perfectly at liberty. Have no fear, I beg. No one can harm you."
The concierge came at his summons and took his orders, he telling her
briefly that the lady would occupy his apartments for a few days, and
that he would use some other rooms at the top of the house which she
had for disposal. Then, when he had seen a light meal brought to her
and the woman had withdrawn, he bade his wife good-night.
"In the morning," he said, "I will tell you how my plans are
progressing. I am about now to visit one who is much concerned with
the colonisation of Louisiana, and, indeed, of the whole of the
Mississippi--doubtless I may obtain some useful knowledge from him."
"And it is to this exile--this life in a savage land--that I have
driven you! You, a gentleman--I, God only knows what," she exclaimed.
"Nay, nay. In any circumstances I must have gone forth to seek my
living in some distant part of the world. It could not have been long
delayed--as well now as a month or a year later."
"At least, you would have gone forth free--free to make a home for
yourself, to have a wife, a----"
But he would listen to none of her self reproaches; would not, indeed,
let her utter them. Instead, he held out his hand to her--permitting
himself that one cold act of intimacy--and said, "Farewell. Farewell,
for the present. Farewell until to-morrow."
"Not farewell," she murmured gently, "not farewell No, not that."
"So be it," he answered, commanding himself and forcing back any
thoughts that rose to his mind at what seemed almost a plea from her.
"So be it. Instead, au revoir. We shall meet again."
And he went forth.