EXPLANATION.
"Mrs. Dombey, it is very necessary that there should be some
understanding arrived at between us. Your conduct does not please
me, madam .... I have made you my wife. You bear my name. You are
associated with my position and my reputation."
CHARLES DICKENS.
On the day on which Cecil had forged the cheque, Meredith Vyner
entered his wife's boudoir with the intention of coming to a serious
explanation with her.
Several times, lately, had the word "separation" been pronounced
between them, without, however, her attaching much importance to it.
She knew that he was miserable, she knew that his love for her had
been worn away, but she knew also that he was weak, and thought he
would never have courage enough to proceed to extremities.
In this she made a great mistake. Vyner was weak, it is true, but he
was also obstinate; he was easily cajoled, but not easily driven from
any plan he had once resolved on. Unable to resist the wildest
caprices of his wife, while he loved her, she lost all power over him
in losing his affection. This she did not suspect. Like many other
people, she altogether miscalculated the nature of her power over
him, and imagined that what she really gained by cajolery and
pretended affection, she gained by mere cunning and strength of will.
Their relative positions were altogether changed. Vyner, no longer
the doating husband, was now the obstinate man. He saw that it was
impossible to live happily with her, and saw that if his children
were once more around him--if Violet especially were once more at
home--he could again resume his peaceful routine of existence.
"I am come to speak seriously to you," he said, as seating himself
opposite to her, he drew out his deliberative snuff-box.
"And I am in no humour for it," she replied, "my head aches. My
nerves are irritable this morning."
"What I have to say must be said, and the sooner it is said the
better for both of us."
She was surprised at the firmness of his manner.
"It is on the old subject," he added; "I need not again recapitulate
the many strong objections your conduct this last year has given rise
to, but I wish once for all to understand whether you intend
persisting in it, or whether you will pay a little more attention to
what is due both to me and yourself."
"How tiresome you are on that subject! When will you understand that
a young woman cannot have an old head upon her shoulders, unless it
is also an ugly one? I shall be grave and sedate enough in time, I
dare say; meanwhile, allow me to observe, that, although I may be
fond of admiration, yet I know perfectly well what is due to myself."
"If you know it, you do not demean yourself in consequence."
"That is the question. I maintain that I do; and I suppose I am old
enough to know what is right on such matters."
He shook his head.
"Can you name any one instance in which I have overstepped the limits
to which even English rigidity confines a young woman?"
"Your encouragement of the attentions of Mr. Ashley...."
"Again, Mr. Ashley!"
"Of Mr. Maxwell...."
She burst out laughing; but the laugh was hollow.
"Of Lord * * * * who every day...."
"Why he's as old as you are!"
Vyner winced at the epigram, which indeed was cruel and insulting.
"It is a pity you did not think of the great disparity in our ages
before you married me, Mrs. Vyner."
"A great pity."
"I have often thought so of late."
"How much better had you thought so before you made me an offer!"
"It was the greatest mistake I ever made, but--
'Sic visum Veneri, cui placeat impares
Formas atque animos sub juga aënea
Sævo mittere cum joco!'"
Vyner had often made that quotation to himself, and now launched it
with great satisfaction, as was evident by the noisy pinch of snuff
with which he closed it.
Mrs. Vyner shrugged her shoulders.
"You have spoken," he said, "of incompatibilities, and I fear they
exist. But, Mrs. Vyner, if you have destroyed my domestic happiness,
you shall not destroy my future comfort. I will not be made a
laughing-stock abroad, and be made miserable at home. I say I will
_not_. I am come, therefore, to offer you an alternative."
"Let me hear it."
"You must cease to see Mr. Maxwell and Lord * * * *"
"Impossible!"
"I say you _must_. Moreover, you must change your manner entirely,
both to other men and to your husband."
"What manner am I to adopt?"
"That which befits a well-conducted wife."
"Mr. Vyner, you are insulting."
"In demanding you to do your duty?"
"No; in asserting that I do anything derogatory."
"You have strange ideas, Mrs. Vyner, on that point."
"Perhaps so; but they are mine."
"They are not mine, however."
"That is unfortunate!"
"Very. I am demanding nothing extraordinary, I imagine, in insisting
that you should cease to flirt with others, and should pay more
respect and deference to my wishes than you have done of late. I do
not demand affection..."
She again shrugged her shoulders; he perceived it.
"Because," he continued, "I know that is absurd; whatever regard you
may once have had for me is gone. I do not even demand gratitude for
the kindness I have ever shown you--and you must admit that I have
been an indulgent husband--foolishly so. But I have a right to
demand from a wife a fulfilment at least of the most ordinary duties
of a wife, and a certain amount of respect, or the show of it at any
rate. This I have a right to demand, and this I will have."
Mrs. Vyner was not a woman to brook such a dictatorial tone even from
the man she loved; and we have seen how Maxwell, when he adopted it,
only irritated her to an unusual degree; from Vyner, whom she had
been accustomed to sway as she pleased; from Vyner whom she disliked,
and somewhat despised, this tone was, therefore, excessively
offensive.
Her lip quivered as she replied, "This is a subject upon which we can
never agree. I hold myself to be quite competent to judge of my own
actions, and until I have done anything to forfeit the good opinion
of the world, I shall continue to act as I think proper."
"That is your final determination?"
"It is. I hope it will be unnecessary for me to repeat it."
"In coming here I expected this, so I came prepared."
"Let me hear your alternative."
"A separation."
She started; not at the word--that she had heard before--but at the
quiet, dogged resolution of the tone. A flush of angry pride ran
over her cheeks and brow.
"It is very terrible, your alternative!" she said, ironically.
"Are you prepared to accept it?"
"Perfectly."
"Very well, then, in that case, I have only to see about the
settlements, and in a week or two, at the farthest, the affair can be
arranged."
He put back his snuff-box into his huge pocket, as he said this, and
walked out of the room with a calmness that lent dignity to his
lumpish figure.
She drooped her head upon her hand, and reflected. Revolted pride,
anger, and fear were struggling in her breast. Irritated as she was
by her husband's manner, she could not reflect upon the separation
without uneasiness.
As his wife, she had an enviable position; separated from him, she
not only lost the advantages of that position, in a deprivation of
wealth, but also in a deprivation of the consideration with which the
world regarded her. A woman separated from her husband is always
equivocally placed; even when the husband is notorious as a bad
character, as a man of unendurable temper, or bitten with some
disgraceful vice, society always looks obliquely at the woman
separated from him; and when she has no such glaring excuse, her
position is more than equivocal. "Respectable" women will not
receive her; or do so with a certain nuance of reluctance. Men
gossip about her, and regard her as a fair mark for their gallantries.
Mrs. Vyner knew all this thoroughly; she had refused to know women in
that condition; at Mrs. Langley Turner's, where she had more than
once encountered these black sheep, she had turned aside her head,
and by a thousand little impertinent airs made them feel the
difference between her purity and their disgrace. A separation,
therefore, was not a thing to be lightly thought of; yet the idea of
obeying Vyner, of accepting his conditions, made her cheek burn with
indignation.
Absorbed in thought she sat, weighing, as in a delicate balance, the
conflicting considerations which arose within her, and ever and anon
asking herself,--"What has become of Maxwell?"