LOVE NOT KILLED BY UNKINDNESS.
For what will love's exalting not go through,
'Till long neglect and utter selfishness
Shames the fond pride it takes in its distress?
LEIGH HUNT.--_Rimini._
Cecil had removed to miserable lodgings at Hammersmith, consisting of
two rooms, and those wretchedly furnished; he had also reduced his
expenses by giving up his _atélier_, and was now, without pretence at
concealment, a gambler, and nothing else.
Blanche's grief when she first discovered his relapse was not so
great as might have been expected, simply because she had to defend
him against the bitter accusations of her father, and in the effort
to excuse her husband in the eyes of another, she succeeded in
greatly excusing him in her own.
There were doubtless many sleepless nights she had to pass, moodily
contemplating the probable consequences of their fate; but when Cecil
came home, her sorrow fled. Either he had won, and then his gaiety
charmed her, and she allowed herself to be seduced into sharing his
sanguine expectations; or else he had lost, and then she had to
comfort and console him, and in that effort to assuage his grief,
forgot her own.
There was something indescribably affecting in the tender solicitude
and unshaken love of this gentle creature for her wretched husband;
she had truly married him for better and for worse, in sickness and
in health, in joy and in sorrow, and no adversity could alter the
current of that love, which flowed from the everlasting fountain of
her heart. He had blighted her youth; he had blighted the existence
of their child; but she loved him perhaps still more dearly than on
that happy day when the priest had joined them at the altar. He had
been weak, contemptible, even infamous; but he had never ceased to be
the idol of her heart.
One day she missed her watch; that watch which Cecil had given her,
and which had always been at her side. She hunted about the house
for it. All day she was in great distress at having lost it, and
endeavoured in vain to persuade herself that perhaps Cecil had taken
it out with him. He returned at two o'clock in the morning. Her
first question was,
"Darling, have you my watch?"
"No," said he sulkily.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! it is lost, then--I have lost it--some one has
stolen it!"
"Pooh! don't make a fuss--it's all right."
"Have you got it?'
"No; but I know where it is."
"Where?"
"In a place where it is quite safe--never fear!"
She understood him. He had pawned it, and the proceeds had gone
where every shilling went.
Another day she missed the baby's coral with its golden bells. This
time she said nothing; she knew too well what must have become of it,
and she burst into tears as she thought of the fearful situation of a
father robbing his own child to feed an infatuated passion!
One by one, every article upon which money could be raised had
disappeared, until he possessed literally nothing more than the
clothes he stood up in.
It was in vain she argued with herself that he, as the master, had a
right to sell his own property, to sell anything and everything he
pleased; she could not drive away the idea of there being something
sneaking in this furtive disposal of his goods; an open sale might be
necessitated, but this silent disappearance by stealth of article
after article was horrible. She never knew what was gone until she
wanted it; and at last her uneasiness became so great that she
trembled to seek the most trifling thing.
Blanche's eyes were not shut to all the weakness of her husband's
character, though her affection made her sophisticate with herself to
an extraordinary extent. She saw the deplorable effects of his
infatuation, and tried her best to wean him from it; but she always
trusted that he would see the folly of the pursuit, and that, after a
certain amount of experience, he would be cured. Meanwhile, that
hope grew fainter and fainter, as time, instead of lessening, seemed
to increase his passion.
To Vyner, Julius, Rose, and Violet, it seemed perfectly
incomprehensible that Blanche should continue to love such a wretch
as Cecil.
"His conduct," Vyner would say, "is enough to have estranged an
angel."
Yet the fact is, that his conduct had not in the least degree
alienated her affection from him; and the explanation of this fact
resides in the moral axiom (the truth of which a large experience of
human nature cannot fail to illustrate), that affection depends upon
_character_, not upon _conduct_.
We love those most with whom we sympathize most, not those from whom
we have received the greatest benefits. The husband who ill-treats
his wife (as people say) is often idolized, while the husband who
idolizes his wife is often looked upon as a "good sort of person" at
the best. No doubt, the ill-treated wife suffers from, and resents
each act of ill-treatment; as the kindly-treated wife is pleased and
grateful for each act of kindness; but in the one case, occasional
acts cannot destroy that sympathy which is the bond of love; nor in
the other case, can the occasional kindnesses create it. Again, I
say it is character, not conduct, which creates affection.
It was Cecil's character that Blanche sympathized with. His
affectionate, caressing manners--his gaiety, his cleverness, and as
she thought genius, were qualities the charm of which could not be
resisted. Then he loved her so truly! not enough, indeed, to forego,
for her sake, the excitement of the gaming-table: not enough to
prevent his sacrificing her with himself to this infatuation: but
that was because he was incapable of _self-mastery_. And if he was
weak, she sympathized with his weakness.
Turn the phrase how we will, it always comes back to these simple
pregnant words: she loved him!