MR. WESTERN YIELDS.
The fact that Lady Grant had gone to Dresden was not long in reaching
the ears of Mrs. Western. Dick Ross had heard at the club at Perth
that she had gone, and had told Sir Francis. Sir Francis passed on
the news to Miss Altifiorla, and from her it had reached the deserted
wife. Miss Altifiorla had not told it direct, because at that time
she and Cecilia were not supposed to be on friendly terms. But the
tidings had got about and Mrs. Western had heard them.
"She's a good woman," said Cecilia to her mother. "I knew her to be
that the first moment that she came to me. She is rough as he is,
and stern, and has a will of her own. But her heart is tender and
true;--as is his also at the core."
"I don't know about that," said Mrs. Holt, with the angry tone which
she allowed herself to use only when speaking of Mr. Western.
"Yes; he is, mamma. In your affection for me you will not allow
yourself to be just to him. In truth you hardly know him."
"I know that he has destroyed your happiness for ever, and made me
very wretched."
"No, mamma; not for ever. It may be that he will come for me, and
that then we shall be as happy as the day is long." As she said
this a vision came before her eyes of the birth of her child and of
her surroundings at the time;--the anxious solicitude of a loving
husband, the care of attendants who would be happy because she was
happy, the congratulations of friends, and the smiles of the world.
But above all she pictured to herself her husband standing by her
bedside with the child in his arms. The dream had been dreamed
before, and was re-dreamed during every hour of the day. "Lady Grant
is strong," she continued, "and can plead for me better than I could
plead myself."
"Plead for you! Why should there be anyone wanted to plead for you?
Will Lady Grant plead with you for her brother?"
"It is not necessary. My own heart pleads for him. It is because he
has been in the wrong that an intercessor is necessary for me. It is
they who commit the injury that have a difficulty in forgiving. If he
came to me do you not know that I should throw myself into his arms
and be the happiest woman in the world without a word spoken?" The
conversation was not then carried further, but Mrs. Holt continued
to shake her head as she sate at her knitting. In her estimation no
husband could have behaved worse than had her son-in-law. And she
was of opinion that he should be punished for his misconduct before
things could be made smooth again.
Some days afterwards Miss Altifiorla called at the house, and sent in
a note while she stood waiting in the hall. In the note she merely
asked whether her "dear Cecilia" would be willing to receive her
after what had passed. She had news to tell of much importance, and
she hoped that her "dear Cecilia" would receive her. There had been
no absolute quarrel, no quarrel known to the servants, and Cecilia
did receive her. "Oh, my dear," she said, bustling into the room with
an air of affected importance, "you will be surprised,--I think that
you must be surprised at what I have to tell you."
"I will be surprised if you wish it," said Cecilia.
"Let me first begin by assuring you, that you must not make light of
my news. It is of the greatest importance, not only to me, but of
some importance also to you."
"It shall be of importance."
"Because you begin with that little sneer which has become so common
with you. You must be aware of it. Amidst the troubles of your own
life, which we all admit to be very grievous, there has come upon
you a way of thinking that no one else's affairs can be of any
importance."
"I am not aware of it."
"It is so a little. And pray believe me that I am not in the least
angry about it. I knew that it would be so when I came to you this
morning; and yet I could not help coming. Indeed as the thing has now
been made known to the Dean's family I could not bear that you should
be left any longer in ignorance."
"What is the thing?"
"There it is again;--that sneer. I cannot tell you unless you will
interest yourself. Does nothing interest you now beyond your own
misfortunes?"
"Alas, no. I fear not."
"But this shall interest you. You must be awaked to the affairs of
the world--especially such an affair as this. You must be shaken up.
This I suppose will shake you up. If not, you must be past all hope."
"What on earth is it?"
"Sir Francis Geraldine--! You have heard at any rate of Sir Francis
Geraldine."
"Well, yes; I have not as yet forgotten the name."
"I should think not. Sir Francis Geraldine has--" And then she paused
again.
"Cut his little finger," said Cecilia. Had she dreamed of what was
to come she would not have turned Sir Francis into ridicule. But she
had been aware of Miss Altifiorla's friendship with Sir Francis,--or
rather what she had regarded as an affectation of friendship, and did
not for a moment anticipate such a communication as was to be made to
her.
"Cecilia Holt--"
"That at any rate is not my name."
"I dare say you wish it were."
"I would not change my real name for that of any woman under the
sun."
"Perhaps not; but there are other women in a position of less
grandeur. I am going to change mine."
"No!"
"I thought you would be surprised because it would look as though I
were about to abandon my great doctrine. It is not so. My opinions on
that great subject are not in the least changed. But of course there
must be some women whom the exigencies of the world will require to
marry."
"A good many, first and last."
"About the good many I do not at this moment concern myself. My duty
is clearly before me and I mean to perform it. I have been asked to
ally myself--;" then there was a pause, and the speaker discovered
when it was too late that she was verging on the ridiculous in
declaring her purpose of forming an alliance;--"that is to say, I am
going to marry Sir Francis Geraldine."
"Sir Francis Geraldine!"
"Do you see any just cause or impediment?"
"None in the least. And yet how am I to answer such a question? I saw
cause or impediment why I should not marry him."
"You both saw it, I suppose?" said Miss Altifiorla, with an air of
grandeur. "You both supposed that you were not made for each other,
and wisely determined to give up the idea. You did not remain single,
and I suppose we need not either."
"Certainly not for my sake."
"Our intimacy since that time has been increased by circumstances,
and we have now discovered that we can both of us best suit our own
interests by an--"
"An alliance," suggested Mrs. Western.
"If you please,--though I am quite aware that you use the term as a
sneer." As to this Mrs. Western was too honest to deny the truth, and
remained silent.
"I thought it proper," continued Miss Altifiorla, "as we had been so
long friends, to inform you that it will be so. You had your chance,
and as you let it slip I trust that you will not envy me mine."
"Not in the least."
"At any rate you do not congratulate me."
"I have been very remiss. I acknowledge it. But upon my word the news
has so startled me that I have been unable to remember the common
courtesies of the world. I thought when I heard of your travelling up
to London together that you were becoming very intimate."
"Oh, it had been ever so much before that,--the intimacy at least. Of
course I did not know him before he came to this house. But a great
many things have happened since that; have there not? Well, good-bye,
dear. I have no doubt we shall continue as friends, especially as we
shall be living almost in the neighbourhood. Castle Gerald is to be
at once fitted up for me, and I hope you will forget all our little
tiffs, and often come and stay with me." So saying, Miss Altifiorla,
having told her grand news, made her adieus and went away.
"A great many things have happened since that," said Cecilia,
repeating to herself her friend's words. It seemed to her to be so
many that a lifetime had been wasted since Sir Francis had first
come to that house. She had won the love of the best man she had
ever known, and married him, and had then lost his love! And now
she had been left as a widowed wife, with all the coming troubles
of maternity on her head. She had understood well the ill-natured
sarcasm of Miss Altifiorla. "We shall be living almost in the same
neighbourhood!" Yes; if her separation from her husband was to be
continued, then undoubtedly she would live at Exeter, and, as far as
the limits of the county were concerned, she would be the neighbour
of the future Lady Geraldine. That she should ever willingly be
found under the same roof with Sir Francis was, as she knew well, as
impossible to Miss Altifiorla as to herself. The invitation contained
the sneer, and was intended to contain it. But it created no anger.
She, too, had sneered at Miss Altifiorla quite as bitterly. They had
each learned to despise the other, and not to sneer was impossible.
Miss Altifiorla had come to tell of her triumph, and to sneer in
return. But it mattered nothing. What did matter was whether that
threat should come true. Should she always be left living at Exeter
with her mother? Then she dreamed her dream again, that he had come
back to her, and was sitting by her bedside with his hand in hers
and whispering sweet words to her, while a baby was lying in her
arms--his child. As she thought of the bliss of the fancied moment,
the still possible bliss, her anger seemed to fade away. What would
she not do to bring him back, what would she not say? She had done
amiss in keeping that secret so long, and though the punishment had
been severe, it was not altogether undeserved. It had come to him as
a terrible blow, and he had been unable to suppress his agony. He
should not have treated her so; no, he should not have sent her away.
But she could make excuses now, which but a few weeks since seemed to
her to be impossible. And she understood, she told herself that she
understood, the difference between herself as a woman and him as a
man. He had a right to command, a right to be obeyed, a right to be
master. He had a right to know all the secrets of her heart, and to
be offended when one so important had been kept from him. He had
lifted his hand in great wrath, and the blow he had struck had been
awful. But she would bear it without a word of complaint if only he
would come back to her. As she thought of it, she declared to herself
that she must die if he did not come back. To live as she was living
now would be impossible to her. But if he would come back, how
absolutely would she disregard all that the world might say as to
their short quarrel. It would indeed be known to all the world, but
what could the world do to her if she once again had her husband by
her side? When the blow first fell on her she had thought much of the
ignominy which had befallen her, and which must ever rest with her.
Even though she should be taken back again, people would know that
she had been discarded. But now she told herself that for that she
cared not at all. Then she again dreamed her dream. Her child was
born, and her husband was standing by her with that sweet manly smile
upon his face. She put out her hand as though he would touch it, and
was conscious of an involuntary movement as though she were bending
her face towards him for a kiss.
Surely he would come to her! His sister had gone to him, and would
have told him the absolute truth. She had never sinned against him,
even by intentional silence. There had been no thought of hers since
she had been his wife which he had not been welcome to share. It
had in truth been for his sake rather than for her own that she had
been silent. She was aware that from cowardice her silence had been
prolonged. But surely now at last he would forgive her that offence.
Then she thought of the words she would use as she owned her fault.
He was a man, and as a man had a right to expect that she would
confess it. If he would come to her, and stand once again with his
arm round her waist, she would confess it.
"My dear, here is a letter. The postman has just brought it." She
took the letter from her mother's hand and hardly knew whether to be
pleased or disappointed when she found that the address was in the
handwriting of Lady Grant. Lady Grant would of course write whether
with good news or with bad. The address told her nothing, but yet she
could not tear the envelope. "Well, my dear; what is it?" said her
mother. "Why don't you open it?"
She turned a soft supplicating painful look up to her mother's face
as she begged for grace. "I will go up-stairs, mamma, and will tell
you by-and-by." Then she left the room with the letter unopened in
her hand. It was with difficulty that she could examine its contents,
so apprehensive was she and yet so hopeful, so confident at one
moment of her coming happiness, and yet so fearful at another that
she should be again enveloped in the darkness of her misery. But she
did at last persuade herself to read the words which Lady Grant had
written. They were very short, and ran as follows: "My dear Cecilia,
my brother returns with me, and will at once go down to Exeter."
The shock of her joy was so great that she could hardly see what
followed. "He will hope to reach that place on the fifteenth by the
train which leaves London at nine in the morning."
That was all, but that was enough. She was sure that he would not
come with the purpose of telling her that he must again leave her.
And she was sure also that if he would once put himself within the
sphere of her personal influence it should be so used that he would
never leave her again.
"Of course he is coming. I knew he would come. Why should he not
come?" This she exclaimed to her mother, and then went on to speak of
him with a wild rhapsody of joy, as though there had hardly been any
breach in her happiness. And she continued to sing the praises of her
husband till Mrs. Holt hardly knew how to bear her enthusiasm in a
fitting mood. For she, who was not in love, still thought that this
man's conduct had been scandalous, wicked, and cruel; and, if to be
forgiven, only to be forgiven because of the general wickedness and
cruelty of man.
It had not been without great difficulty that Lady Grant induced her
brother to assent to her writing the letter which has been given
above. When he had agreed to return with her to England he had no
doubt assented to her assertion that he was bound to take his wife
back again, even without any confession. And this had been so much to
gain, had been so felt to be the one only material point necessary,
that he was not pressed as to his manner of doing it. But before they
reached London it was essential that some arrangement should be made
for bringing them together. "Could not I go down to Durton," he had
said, "and could not she come to me there?" No doubt he might have
gone to Durton, and no doubt she would have gone to him if asked. She
would have flown to him at Dresden, or to Jerusalem, at a word spoken
by him. Absence had made him so precious to her, that she would have
obeyed the slightest behest with joy as long as the order given were
to bring them once more together. But of this Lady Grant was not
aware, and, had she been so, the sense of what was becoming would
have restrained her.
"I think, George, that you had better go to Exeter," she said.
"Should we not be more comfortable at Durton?"
"I think that when at Durton you will be more happy if you shall
yourself have fetched her from her mother's home. I think you owe it
to your wife to go to her, and make the journey with her. What is
your objection?"
"I do not wish to be seen in Exeter," he replied.
"Nor did she, you may be sure, when she returned there alone. But
what does it matter? If you can be happy in once more possessing
her, it cannot signify who shall see you. There can be nothing to be
ashamed of in going for your wife; nor can any evil happen to you. As
this thing is to be done, let it be done in a noble spirit."