Valentine was sitting in her pretty drawing-room. It was dinner time,
but she had not changed her dress. She was too young, too fresh, and
unused to trouble, for it yet to leave any strong marks on her face.
The delicate color in her cheeks had slightly paled, it is true, her
bright hair was in confusion, and her eyes looked larger and more
wistful than their wont, but otherwise no one could tell that her heart
was beating heavily and that she was listening eagerly for a footstep.
Seven o'clock came--half-past seven. This was Gerald's last night at
home; he was to sail in the _Esperance_ for Sydney to-morrow. Valentine
felt stunned and cold, though she kept on repeating to herself over and
over:--
"This parting is nothing. He's sure to be home in six months at the
latest. Six months at the very latest. In these days there is really no
such thing as distance. What is a six months' parting? Besides, it is
not as if I were really in love with him. Father asked me the question
direct last night, and I said I wasn't. How could I love him with all
my heart when I remember that scene at the Gaiety? Oh, that scene! It
burns into me like fire, and father's look--I almost hated father that
night. I did really. Fancy, Valentine hating her father! Oh, of course
it passed. There is no one like my father. Husbands aren't like
fathers, not in the long run. Oh, Gerald, you might have told me the
truth? I'd have forgiven you, I would really, if you had told me the
truth. Oh, why don't you come? _Why_ don't you come? You might be in
time this last evening. It is a quarter to eight now. I am
impatient--I am frightened. Oh, there's a ring at the hall door. Oh,
thank God. No, of course, Gerald, I don't love you--not as I could have
loved--and yet I do--I _do_ love you--I _do_!"
She clasped her hands--a footstep was on the stairs. The door was
opened, Masters brought her a thick letter on a salver.
"Has not Mr. Wyndham come? Was not that ring Mr. Wyndham's?"
"No, madam, a messenger brought this letter. He said there was no
answer."
The page withdrew, and Valentine tore open the envelope. A letter
somewhat blotted, bearing strong marks of agitation, but in her
husband's writing, lay in her hand. Her eager eyes devoured the
contents.
"I can't say good-bye, my darling--there are limits even to my
endurance--I can't look at you and hear you say 'Good-bye, Gerald.'
I bade you farewell this morning when you were asleep. I am not
coming home to-night, but your father will spend the evening with
you. You love him better than me, and I pray the God of all mercy
that he may soften any little pang that may come to you in this
separation. When you are reading this I shall be on my way to
Southampton. I have bid your father good-bye, and he will tell you
everything there is to tell about me. The _Esperance_ sails at noon
to-morrow, and it is a good plan to be on board in good time. I
cannot tell you. Valentine, what my own feelings are. I cannot
gauge my love for you. I don't think anything could probe it to its
depths. I am a sinful man, but I sometimes hope that God will
forgive me, because I have loved as much as the human heart is
capable of loving. You must remember that, dear. You must always
know that you have inspired in one man's breast the extreme of
love!
"Good-bye, my darling. It is my comfort to know that the bitterness
of this six months' separation falls on me. If I thought otherwise,
if I thought even for a moment that you cared more for your husband
than you do for the world's opinion, or for riches, or for honor,
that you would rather have him with poverty and shame, that he was
more to you even than the father who gave you your being, then I
would say even now, at the eleventh hour, 'fly to me, Valentine.
Let us go away together on board the _Esperance_, and forget all
promises and all honor, and all truth.' Yes, I would say it. But
that is a mad dream. Forget this part of my letter. Valentine. It
has been wrung from a tortured and almost maddened heart. Good-bye,
my wife. Be thankful that you have not it in you to love
recklessly.
"Your husband,
"GERALD WYNDHAM."
"But I have!" said Valentine. She raised her eyes. Her father was in
the room.
"Yes, I can love--I too can give back the extreme of love. Father, I am
going to my husband. I am going to Southampton. What's the matter? What
are you looking at me like that for? Why did you send Gerald away
without letting him come to say good-bye? Not that it matters, for I am
going to him. I shall take the very next train to Southampton."
"My darling," began Mr. Paget.
"Oh, yes, father, yes. But there's no time for loving words just now.
I've had a letter from my husband, and I'm going to him. I'm going to
Sydney with him. Yes--you can't prevent me!"
"You are talking folly, Valentine," said Mr. Paget. "You are excited,
my child; you are talking wildly. Going with your husband? My poor
little girl. There, dear, there. He'll soon be back. You can't go with
him, you know, my love. Show me his letter. What has he dared to say
to excite you like this?"
"No, you shan't see a word of his dear letter. No, not for all the
world. I understand him at last, and I love him with all my heart and
soul. Yes, I do. Oh, no, I don't love you as I love my husband."
Mr. Paget stepped back a pace or two. There was no doubting Valentine's
words, no doubting the look on her face. She was no longer a child. She
was a woman, a woman aroused to passion, almost to fury.
"I am going to my husband," she said. And she took no notice of her
father when he sank into the nearest chair and pressed his hand to his
heart.
"I have got a blow," he said. "I have got an awful blow."
But Valentine did not heed him.