MR. WESTERN'S DECISION.
What should she do with herself? Her breakfast was brought to her. At
noon she was told that Mr. Western had gone out for the day and would
not return till the evening. She was asked whether she would have
her pony carriage, and, on refusing it, was persuaded by her maid
to walk in the grounds. "I think I will go out," she said, and went
and walked for an hour. Her maid had been peculiarly her own and had
come to her from Exeter; but she would not talk to her maid about
her quarrel with her husband, though she was sure that the girl knew
of the quarrel. Those messages had certainly come direct from her
husband, and could not, she thought, have been sent without some
explanation of the facts. She could see on the faces of all the
household that everyone knew that there was a quarrel. Twenty times
during the day would she have had her husband's name on her tongue
had there been no quarrel. It had been with her as though she had had
a pride in declaring herself to be his wife. But now she was silent
respecting him altogether. She could not bring herself to ask the
gardener whether Mr. Western wished this thing or the other. The
answer had always been that the master wished the paths and the
shrubs and the flowers to be just as she wished them. But now not
a word was spoken. For an hour she walked among the paths, and
then returned to her own room. Would she have her dinner in the
dining-room? If so, the master would have his in the library. Then
she could restrain herself no longer, but burst into tears. No; she
would have no dinner. Let them bring her a cup of tea in her own
room.
There she sat thinking of her condition, wondering from hour to hour
what was to be the end of it. From hour to hour she sat, and can
hardly have been said to think. She lost herself in pondering first
over her own folly and then upon his gross injustice. She could not
but marvel at her own folly. She had in truth known from the first
moment in which she had resolved to accept his offer, that it was
her duty to tell him the story of her adventure with Sir Francis
Geraldine. It should have been told indeed before she had accepted
his offer, and she could not now forgive herself in that she had been
silent. "You must know my story," she should have said, "before there
can be a word more spoken between us." And then with a clear brow and
without a tremor in her voice she could have told it. But she had
allowed herself to be silent, simply because he had told the same
story, and then the moment had never come. She could not forgive
herself. She could never entirely forgive herself, even though the
day should come in which he might pardon her.
But would he ever pardon her? Then her mind would fly away to the
injustice of his condemnation. He had spoken to her darkly, as though
he had intended to accuse her of some secret understanding with Sir
Francis. He had believed her to be guilty of some underhand plot
against his happiness, carried on with the man to whom she had
been engaged! Of what was it that he had imagined her to be guilty?
What was the plot of which in his heart he accused her? Then her
imagination looked out and seemed to tell her that there could be but
one. Her husband suspected her of having married him while her heart
was still the property of that other man! And as she thought of
this, indignation for the time almost choked her grief. Could it be
possible that he, to whom she had given everything with such utter
unreserve, whom she had made the god of her idolatry, to whom she had
been exactly that which he had known so well how to describe,--could
it be that he should have had every thought concerning her changed
in a moment, and that from believing her to be all pure and all
innocent, he should have come to regard her as a thing so vile as
that? She almost tore her hair in her agony as she said that it
must be so. He had told her that his respect, his esteem, and his
veneration, had all passed away. She could never consent to live with
him trusting solely to his love without esteem.
But as the evening passed away and the night came, and as the
duration of the long hours of the day seemed to grow upon her, and as
no tidings came to her from her lord, she began to tell herself that
it was unbecoming that she should remain without knowing her fate.
The whole length of the tedious day had passed since he had left her
and had condemned her to breakfast in solitude. Then she accused
herself of having been hard with him during that interview, of having
failed to submit herself in repentance, and she told herself that if
she could see him once more, she might still whisper to him the truth
and soften his wrath. But something she must do. She had dismissed
her maid for the last time, and sat miserably in her room till
midnight. But still she could not go to bed till she had made some
effort. She would at any rate write to him one word. She got up
therefore and seated herself at the table with pen and ink before
her. She would write the whole story, she thought, simply the whole
story, and would send it to him, leaving it to him to believe or to
disbelieve it as he pleased. But as she bent over the table she felt
that she could not write such a letter as that without devoting an
entire day to it. Then she rapidly scrawled a few words:--
DEAREST GEORGE,--Come to me and let me tell you
everything.--Your own CECILIA.
Then she addressed it to him and put it under her pillow that she
might send it to him as soon as she should wake in the morning.
Having done so she got into her bed and wept herself asleep.
When the girl came into the room in the morning she at once asked
after her husband. "Is Mr. Western up yet?" The maid informed her
with an air of grave distress that Mr. Western had risen early and
had been driven away from the house to catch a morning train. More
than that the girl could not say. But she believed that a letter had
been left on the library table. She had heard John say that there was
such a letter. But John had gone with his master to the station. Then
she sent down for the letter, and within a few minutes held it in her
hand.
We will now go back to Mr. Western. He, as soon as he had left his
wife's room in the morning went down-stairs, and began to consider
within himself what was the cause of this evil thing which had been
done to him. A very evil thing had been done. He did feel that the
absolute happiness which had been his for the last few days had
perished and gone from him. He was a man undemonstrative, and silent
in expressing his own feelings, but one who revelled inwardly in his
own feelings of contentment when he was content. His wife had been to
him all that he had dreamt that a woman should be. She had filled up
his cup with infinite bliss, though he had never told even to her how
full his cup had been. But in everything he had striven to gratify
her, and had been altogether successful. To go on from day to day
with his books, with his garden, with his exercise, and above all
with his wife, had been enough to secure absolute happiness. He had
suspected no misfortune, and had anticipated no drawback. Then on
a sudden there had come this damnable letter, which had made him
wretched for the time, even though he were sure that it was not true.
But he had known that it was only for the time, for he had been sure
that it was untrue. Then the blow had fallen, and all his contentment
was banished. There was some terrible mystery,--some mystery of which
he could not gauge the depth. Though he was gracious and confiding
and honest when left at peace, still he was painfully suspicious when
something arose of which the circumstances were kept back from him.
There was a secret here,--there was certainly a secret; and it was
shared between his wife, whom of all human beings he had loved the
best, and the man whom he most thoroughly despised. As long as it
was possible that the whole tale might be an invention he would not
believe a word against his wife; but, when it appeared that there was
certainly some truth in it, then it seemed that there was nothing too
monstrous for him to believe.
After his solitary breakfast he walked abroad, and turned it all in
his mind. He had given her the opportunity of telling him everything,
and she had told him nothing. So he declared to himself. That one
damning fact was there,--clear as daylight, that she had willingly
bestowed herself upon this baronet, this creature who to his thinking
was vile as a man could be. As to that there was no doubt. That was
declared. How different must she have been from that creature whom
he had fancied that he had loved, when she would have willingly
consented to be the wife of such a man? And this had been done within
a year,--as he said. And then she had married him, telling him
nothing of it, though she must have known that he would discover it
as soon as she was his wife. It suited her to be his wife,--for some
reason which he could not perceive. She had achieved her object;--but
not on that account need he live with her. It had been an affair of
money, and his money she might have.
He came back and got his horse, as the motion of walking was not fast
enough for him in his passion. It was grievous to be borne,--the fact
that he had been so mistaken in choosing for himself a special woman
as a companion of his life. He had desired her to be all honour, all
truth, all simplicity, and all innocence. And instead of these things
he had encountered fraud and premeditated deceit. She was his wife
indeed;--but not on that account need he live with her.
And then his curiosity was raised. What was the secret between them?
There must have been some question of money, as to which at the last
moment they had disagreed. To his thinking it was vile that a young
woman should soil her mind with such thoughts and marry or reject
a man at the last moment because of his money. All that should be
arranged for her by her friends, so that she might go to her husband
without having been mixed in any question of a sordid matter. But
these two had probably found at the last moment that their income
was insufficient for their wants, and therefore his purse had been
thought convenient. As all these things, with a thousand others,
passed through his mind he came to the determination that at any rate
they must part.
He came home, and before he ate his dinner he wrote to her that
letter, of which the contents shall now be given. It was a most
unreasonable letter. But to him in his sorrow, in his passion, it
seemed that every word was based upon reason.
DEAR CECILIA, [the letter ran]
I need hardly tell you that I was surprised by the facts
which you at last told me this morning. I should have
been less pained, perhaps, had they come to me in the
first instance from yourself instead of from Sir Francis
Geraldine. But I do not know that the conclusion to which
I have been forced would have been in any way altered
had such been the case. I can hardly, I fear, make you
understand the shock with which I have received the
intelligence, that a month or two before I proposed to you
you had been the promised wife of that man. I need hardly
tell you that had I known that it was so I should not have
offered you my hand. To say the least of it, I was led
into my marriage by mistake. But a marriage commenced with
such a mistake as that cannot be happy.
As to your object I cannot surmise. But I suppose that you
were satisfied, thinking me to be of a nature especially
soft and gentle. But I fear I am not so. After what has
passed I cannot bring myself to live with you again. Pray
believe it. We have now parted for ever.
As to your future welfare, and as to the honour which will
be due to my name, which you must continue to bear, I am
quite willing to make any arrangements which friends of
yours shall think to be due to you. Half my income you
shall have, and you shall live here in this house if it be
thought well for you. In reference to these things your
lawyers had better see my lawyers. In the meantime my
bankers will cash your cheques. But believe me that I am
gone, not to return.
Your affectionate husband,
GEORGE WESTERN.
These words he wrote, struggling to be cool and rational while he
wrote them, and then he departed, leaving the letter upon the table.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
VOLUME II.