SEPARATION.
Pacing his library at Chenevix House, in almost the same perturbation
that was tormenting his mind when we first met him in this history,
strode the Earl of Acorn. The cause of disquiet was not the same. Then
it had arisen from a want of cash; now it was the trouble connected
with his daughter Adela.
By the mantelpiece, erect and noble as ever, but with a countenance
full of pain, stood Mr. Grubb. He could scarcely speak without
betraying his emotion. Lord Acorn was agitated also--which was a great
deal to say of _him_.
Mr. Grubb had come this morning to inform Lord Acorn of the separation
he had resolved upon; and to submit its terms for his approval. Never,
he said, would he live with his wife again. After what had passed
recently, and after the years of penance he had endured with her, he
could only put her away from him.
"And, egad, it is what I should do myself," thought the earl. But he
did not say so. He said just the opposite.
"_Must_ this be, Grubb? Cannot she and you make it up--or something?"
"Never again," was the decisive answer. "Could you, looking at matters
impartially, _wish_ me to do it? Though, as her father, perhaps it is
too much to expect you to exercise an impartial judgment,"
considerately added Mr. Grubb.
"I don't excuse her; mind that, Grubb. And I acknowledge--I'll be shot
if I can help saying it--that some men would have put her away before
this. She has behaved ill to you; no doubt of it; but she is young and
light-headed, and will gain sense with time. Can't there be some
modification?"
"Not any," spoke Mr. Grubb. "The pain this decision has caused me no
one will ever know, but there has not been one moment's wavering in my
mind as regards its absolute necessity. Lord Acorn, I think you cannot
blame me. Imagine yourself in my place, and then see whether you do."
"I don't, I don't, looking at it from your point of view," said the
earl. "I am thinking of Adela, and the blow it will be to her."
"A blow?--to be rid of me? Surely not. It is what she has been wishing
for years."
"In talk. Girls will talk--silly minxes! To be put away by you, Grubb,
and from her home, is quite another thing."
"She must care for my home as little as she cares for me. She has
already taken the initiative, and left it."
Lord Acorn wheeled round on his heel in surprise. "Left your home,
Grubb? What do you mean?"
Mr. Grubb looked surprised in his turn. "Did you not know it? Is she
not here?"
"She is certainly not here, and I did not know it. Confound these
silly women! She has run away, I suppose, to hide herself from----"
"From the law," Lord Acorn would have said; but he did not end the
sentence. He asked Mr. Grubb when she went, and how, and if he had any
idea where she was. Mr. Grubb had not any idea, and related all he
knew; he had supposed her to be at Chenevix House.
Heaven alone knew, or ever would know, the terrible shock, the blow
the discovery of his wife's treachery brought to Mr. Grubb. That she
should have been capable of robbing him, of forging his name and his
partner's, of obtaining the money, all in so imprudent, so barefaced a
manner, and of using it to pay her gaming debts, would alone have
filled him with a dismay to shrink from. But that she should have
allowed the guilt and the punishment to fall upon another; and that
she should have impudently denied her own guilt to himself, and flung
back with scorn his entreaties for her confidence and the offer he
made to shield her in all tenderness, shook his soul to the centre.
From the hour of his enlightenment he was a changed man. That which
the insults, the scorn of years, had failed to effect on his heart,
was accomplished now. His consideration for his wife had turned to
sternness; his love to righteous anger. Never again would he bear her
contumely; no longer should his home be hers. This most fatal action
of hers--the crime she had committed, and the innocent tool she had
made of Charles Cleveland--afforded Mr. Grubb the justification for
extreme measures, which he might otherwise have lacked. During the
hours he spent by his mother's sick-bed, he formed and matured his
plans. Not with Lady Adela would he enter on the negotiations for
their separation, but with her father and mother. She must return to
them; must live under their protection and guidance, as she did before
her marriage; she was not yet old enough or wise enough to be trusted
alone.
And Mr. Grubb came up from Blackheath to make known his decision to
Lord Acorn. It was the morning following the day of Charles's release
and of Sir Turtle Kite's dinner at Chenevix House.
Mrs. Lynn's illness had been a dangerous one. For many hours it had
not been known whether she would live or die. On the Tuesday evening,
Mr. Howard went to Blackheath, carrying with him the tidings of the
obduracy of Sir Turtle Kite: in consequence of which, Mr. Grubb came
up on the Wednesday to attend the examination. His mother was then a
shade better, but he returned to her the instant the examination was
over and Charles released.
On the Thursday morning, Mr. Grubb again came up, as just stated, to
confer with Lord Acorn. On his way he called at his own home in
Grosvenor Square, intending to acquaint his wife with his
decision--that they must separate--but not to enter into details with
her. Hilson looked very glad to see his master, and feelingly inquired
after Mrs. Lynn. Better, answered Mr. Grubb; she might recover now.
"Ask Lady Adela if she will be good enough to come to me here," he
added to the butler, as he turned into his library.
"Her ladyship is not at home, sir," promptly replied Hilson.
"Not at home!" and Mr. Grubb could not altogether keep his surprise
out of his tone. "She has gone out early."
"My lady left home yesterday morning, sir, before breakfast. Darvy, I
believe, carried a cup of tea to her room."
"But she returned, I suppose?"
"No, sir, not since."
"Where is her ladyship gone? Do you know?"
"Not at all, sir. Darvy was mysterious over it. She heard her lady say
this was no longer any home for her; she told me that much. John was
sent to fetch a cab, and her ladyship and Darvy went away in it, with
a carpet bag."
"She must be at Lord Acorn's," remarked Mr. Grubb; a conclusion he had
rapidly come to. Hilson agreed with it.
"No doubt, sir. My lady may have felt lonely here without you."
Mr. Grubb went straight to Chenevix House. Not to see Adela, but to
enter on his business with Lord Acorn. And then, as you find, he
learnt that she was not there.
"Stay a moment," said Lord Acorn, a recollection occurring to him.
"Adela was at Colonel Hope's yesterday: I remember Frances said so.
She must be staying there. That's it."
"Probably so," was Mr. Grubb's cold assent. "She has, I say, taken the
initiative in the matter."
He sat down as he spoke, motioning Lord Acorn to the seat on the other
side of the small table between them, and took a paper from his
pocketbook on which he had pencilled a few notes, as to the terms of
separation.
Terms that were wonderfully liberal in their pecuniary aspect. Lord
Acorn heard the amount of the sum he proposed to allow his wife
annually with a thrill of generous admiration. Oh, what a fool Adela
has been! thought he. Why could she not have made herself a loving
helpmeet to this noble-minded man, whose every instinct is good and
great?
"Are you satisfied with the amount, Lord Acorn?"
"Quite."
"It will be paid to you; not to herself," continued Mr. Grubb. "As a
matter of course, her home must be with you and her mother. The
allowance that you may deem suitable for herself personally you will
be good enough to pay to her out of it, as you and she may arrange. I
do not interfere with details. She had better have her own separate
carriage and horses."
Lord Acorn nodded in silence. He knew why he was to be the recipient
of the income, instead of Adela--that she might not have the means at
her disposal to lose herself in future at Lady Sanely's. _That_ had
been the leading source of this last dangerous episode.
"I hope you will take care of her," cried Mr. Grubb, as he rose, and
pressed Lord Acorn's hand in parting.
"To the best of my power. Ah, Grubb I--I can't grumble, of course; no,
neither at the step nor the proposed arrangements--but, if you _could_
but see your way to condone the past; to receive her back!"
"Never again," was the quiet answer. "Darvy can attend to the removal
of her things from Grosvenor Square."
Mr. Grubb walked back to his own home with slow and thoughtful steps,
his heart filled with the bitterness of disappointed hopes. It is no
light matter for a man to part for ever with the wife of his bosom; to
say to her, "Your road lies that way from henceforth; mine this."
Especially a wife who had been loved as Francis Grubb had loved his.
That Adela had run away from his home, abandoned it and him, he
entertained not the slightest doubt. She had been tacitly
demonstrating to him for years that she wished to be rid of
him--indeed, not always tacitly--and now she had accomplished it. This
impression did not lead to Mr. Grubb's decision to put her away; it
had, and could have had, nothing to do with that: but it tended to
deaden any small regret he may have felt.
It was a wrong impression, however. Lady Adela had not run away from
Grosvenor Square to be quit of her husband; she had left it under
fear.
When Frances Chenevix quitted her the night already told of, Tuesday,
leaving her with the dread news that the magistrates would not release
Charley, unless they produced the true culprit, herself, in his stead,
Adela's worst fears were aroused. She passed a wretched night, now
pacing her chamber, now tossing on her sleepless bed. She saw the
matter now in its true colours, all its deadly peril, its shameful
sin. Throwing herself on her knees, she raised her hands in prayerful
agony, beseeching the Most High to spare them both--herself from
exposure, the innocent young fellow, who had been made her tool, from
punishment--and she took a solemn oath never again to be tempted to
play.
Whether the prayer soothed her spirit, or whether the natural reaction
that follows upon violent emotion set in, certain it was that a sort
of calm stole over Adela. Her head lay on the bed, her arms were
outstretched, and by-and-by she slept. If, indeed, it could be called
sleep.
For she still seemed to be conscious of the peril that awaited her and
a sort of dream, that was half reality, began weaving its threads in
her brain.
She thought she was in that, her own chamber, and kneeling down by the
bed, as she was, in fact, kneeling. She seemed to be endeavouring to
hide and could not. Suddenly, a faint noise arose in the street, and
she appeared to rise from her knees, and go to the window to peep out.
There she saw two fierce-looking men, whom she knew instinctively to
be officers of justice come to apprehend her, mounted on horses. Each
horse had a red lantern fixed above its head, from which bright red
rays radiated on all sides. As she looked, the rays flashed upwards
and discovered her. "There she is!" called out a voice that she knew
to be Charles Cleveland's, and in the fright and horror she awoke. Her
whole frame shook with terror, and several minutes passed before she
could understand that it was not reality.
The peril existed, all too surely. What if Charles, to save himself,
avowed the truth, that it was she who was guilty, and was already
piloting those dread officers of justice to her house? Nay, and if he
did not avow it, others must. How could she, she herself, allow him to
stand in her place to suffer for her, now that it had come to this?
The dream had struck to her nerves. Ensuing upon the natural fear, it
had created a perfect terror. The horrible red lights seemed yet to
flash upon her face: and a lively dread set in that the officers might
be, there and then, on their way westward, to secure her. This fear
tormented her throughout the rest of the livelong night; and by the
morning it had grown into a desperate belief, a reality, a living
agony. There was only one step that could save her--flight.
With the first sounds of stir in the house, she rang for Darvy. That
damsel, fearing illness, threw on a few garments, and ran to her
lady's room. To her intense astonishment, there stood Lady Adela, up
and dressed, her eyes wild and her cheeks hectic.
"I want to go away somewhere, Darvy," she said, her lively imagination
picturing to herself, with increased certainty and increased terror,
the capturing officers drawing nearer and nearer. "Will you pack up a
few things, and have a cab called?"
"Name o' goodness!" uttered Darvy, who was three-parts Welsh, and was
privately wondering whether her lady had gone suddenly demented. "And
what's it all for, my lady?--and where is it you want to go?"
"Anywhere; this house is no longer a home for me. At least--there,
don't stand staring, but do as I tell you," broke off Lady Adela,
saying anything that came uppermost in her perplexity and fear. "Put
up a few things for me in haste, and get a cab."
"Am I to attend you, my lady?" asked the bewildered woman.
"No--yes--no. Yes, perhaps you had better," finally decided Lady
Adela, in grievous uncertainty. "Don't lose a moment."
Darvy obeyed orders, believing nevertheless that somebody's head was
turned. She got herself ready, packed a carpet bag, had the thought to
take her lady a cup of tea, exchanging a little private conference
with her crony, the butler, while she made it, and ordered the cab.
Then she and Lady Adela came down and entered it, neither of them
having the slightest notion for what quarter of the wide world she was
bound.
"Where to?" asked John of Darvy, as she followed her mistress into the
cab.
"Where to, my lady?" demanded Darvy, in turn. "Anywhere. Tell him to
drive on," responded Lady Adela.
"Tell him to drive straight on," said Darvy to John.
"Where can I go?--where shall I be safe?" thought Adela to herself, as
they went along. "I wonder--I wonder if Sarah would take me in?"
came the next thought. "They"--the "they" applying to the legal
thief-catchers--"would never think of looking for me there. Sarah is
angry with me, I know, but she won't refuse to hide me. Darvy, direct
the man to Colonel Hope's."
This last sensible injunction was a wonderful relief to Darvy's
troubled mind. And to Colonel Hope's they went.
Lady Sarah "took her in," and Adela hid herself away in the bedroom of
her sister Frances. Truth to say, they were in much anxiety
themselves, the colonel included, as to what trouble and exposure
might not be falling upon Adela. They did not refuse to shelter her,
but they let her know tacitly how utterly they condemned her conduct.
Lady Sarah was coldly distant in manner; the colonel would not see her
at all.
Before the day was over--it was in the afternoon--Grace came to them
with the truth--that Charles Cleveland was released and had gone to
Netherleigh. Adela, perhaps not altogether entirely reassured about
herself, said she would stay at the colonel's another night, if
permitted: and she did so.
That was the explanation of Adela's absence from home. She had left
the house in fear; not voluntarily to quit it or her husband. Her
husband, however, not knowing this, took the opposite view, and dwelt
upon it as he walked away from Lord Acorn's in the summer sun. Not
that, one way or the other, it would make any difference to him.
Entering his house, Mr. Grubb went straight upstairs to his
dressing-room, intending to change the coat he wore for a lighter one.
The bedroom door came first. He opened that, intending to pass across
it, when he came face to face with his wife.
Just for a moment he was taken by surprise, having supposed the room
to be empty. She had returned from Lady Sarah's, and was standing at
the dressing-glass, doing something to her hair, her bonnet evidently
just taken off. She wore a quiet dress of black silk--the one she had
gone away in.
That frequent saying, "the devil was sick," was alluded to a few
pages back. It might again be quoted. Lady Adela, when she thought the
trouble had not passed and her heart was softened, had mentally
rehearsed once more a little scene of tenderness, to be enacted when
she next met her husband. She met him now; and she turned back to the
looking-glass without speaking a word.
She now knew that the danger was over; over for good. Charley was
discharged, scathless; her own name had been kept silent and
sacred--and there was an end of it.
She turned back to the glass, after looking round to see who it was
that had come in, saying not a word. Possibly she anticipated a
lecture, and deemed it the wisest plan to keep silent--who knew? Not
Mr. Grubb. She gave him neither word nor smile, neither tear nor kiss.
He walked across the room, and stood at the window nearest the
dressing-table, turning to face her. Could she not have said
good-morning?--could she not have asked him how he had been these
three days, and what the news was from Blackheath? She appeared to be
too much occupied with her lovely hair.
"I must request you to give me your attention for a few minutes, Lady
Adela."
There was something in the proud, distant tone, in the formality of
the address, that caused her to glance at him quickly. She did not
like his face. It was stern, impassive, as she had never before seen
it.
"Yes," she answered, quite timidly.
In the same cold tone, with the same unbending countenance, Mr. Grubb
in a few concise words informed her of the resolution he had taken. He
could never allow her to inhabit the same house with himself again;
her father and mother would receive her back in her maiden home. The
arrangements connected with this step had been settled between himself
and Lord Acorn: and he should be glad if she made it convenient to
leave Grosvenor Square that day.
Intense astonishment, gradually giving place to dismay, kept her
silent. The comb dropped from her hand. "Anything but this," beat the
refrain in her heart; "anything but this." For Lady Adela, so alive to
the good opinion of the world, would almost rather have preferred
death than that she should be publicly put away by her husband.
"You have no right to do this," she stammered, her face ashy pale.
"No right! After what has passed? Ask your father whether I possess
the right, or not," he added, his voice stern with indignation. "But
for my clemency, you might have taken the place from which Charles
Cleveland has been released."
"Is that the reason?" she asked.
"It has afforded the justification for the step. Following on the
course of treatment you have dealt out to me for years----"
"I have been very wrong," she interrupted. "I meant to have told you
so. I have not behaved as--as--I ought to behave for a long while; I
acknowledge it. Won't you forgive me?"
"No," he answered--and his voice had no relenting in it.
"I will try and do better; I will indeed," she reiterated: not daring
now to offer the caresses her imagination had planned out. "Oh, you
must forgive me; you must not put me away!"
"Lady Adela, but a few days ago, it was my turn to make supplication
to you; I did so more than once. I told you I would protect, forgive,
shield you. I prayed you, almost as solemnly as I pray to Heaven, to
trust me--your husband--_as you wished it to be well with us in our
future life_. Do you remember how you met that prayer?--how you
answered me?"
Yes, she did. And her face flushed painfully at the remembrance.
"As you rejected me, so must I reject you."
"Not to separation!"
"Separation will be only too welcome to you. Have you not been telling
me as much for years?"
"But not in earnest; not to mean it really. I will give up play--I
have given it up; believe that. A man may not reject his wife," she
continued in agitation.
"He may--when he has sufficient reason for it. Look at the wife you
have been to me; the shameful treatment you have persistently dealt to
me. I speak not now of this recent act of disgrace, by which you
hazarded your own good name and mine--I will not trust myself to speak
of it--but of the past. Few men would have borne with you as I have
borne. I loved you with a true and tender love: how have you repaid
me?"
"Let us start afresh," she said, imploringly, putting up her hands.
Indeed this was a most terrible moment for her.
"It may not be," he coldly rejoined. "My resolution has been
deliberately taken, and I cannot change it upon impulse."
"I had meant to pray you to forgive me--for this and all the past--I
had indeed. I had meant to say that I would be different--would try to
love you."
"Too late."
"In a little while, then," she panted, her face working with emotion,
tears starting to her eyes. "You will take me back later! In a week or
two."
"Neither now nor later. My feelings were long, long outraged, and I
bore with you, hoping for better things. But in this last fearful act,
and more especially in the circumstances attending it, you have broken
all allegiance, you have deliberately thrown off my protection. Lady
Adela, I shall never live under the same roof with you again."
She laid her hand upon her palpitating heart. He crossed the room with
the last words, and quietly left it. A faint cry of distress seemed to
be sounding in his ear: "Mercy! mercy" as he closed the door.
Descending the stairs with a deliberate step, he caught up his hat in
the hall, and went out. And Adela, the usually indifferent, fell to
the ground in a storm of anguished tears.