"You have broken your oathAnd broken my heart,Oh, sorrow for both,You have broken your oath;Although I am lothIn anger to part,You have broken your oathAnd broken my heart."
"You have broken your oath
And broken my heart,
Oh, sorrow for both,You have broken your oath;Although I am loth
In anger to part,
You have broken your oath
And broken my heart."
Alizon Errington was seated in the Dutch room with Aunt Jelly's letter clenched in her hand, and Sammy playing on the carpet beside her. The child, rolling among his toys was babbling inarticulate words of endearment to them, but the mother's eyes were fixed on the gaudy bed of tulips blazing in the sunshine as she thought over the words she had just read.
So this was her husband! This man who had gone straight from his home, from his wife, from his child, to the arms of this infamous woman. He knew more than the world did about the character of Mrs. Veilsturm, for she had told him herself. He knew that she, his wife, had refused to receive this adventuress and had returned her card! He knew that Mrs. Veilsturm, Cleopatra, whatever she liked to call herself, had been connected with disreputable Gabriel Mostyn, and yet, in spite of all this, he had dared to enter her house, to clasp hands with her as a friend, to sacrifice his honour and that of his wife to this vile woman.
Was there any faith or honesty in man?
Her father had been bad and vicious all his life; he had destroyed his daughter's belief in the male sex by the terrible revelations of his death-bed, but her husband--oh!--she had thought him better than this: she had respected and admired him, she had been a good wife, holding her head high and keeping her honour spotless. She was a good mother to his child, and she had done her best in all ways to fulfil the vows made at the marriage altar.
This was her reward! She was deserted for another woman, for a woman who was the vilest of her sex. Her wifely honour had been dragged in the mud, her wifely name had been placed with jeers in the mouths of men and women, and the marriage tie, so sacred in her eyes, had been violated by her husband, by the very man who should have respected its sanctity.
Her first born was playing at her feet in the happy innocence of childhood, a pure soul fresh from the hand of God, who had given her this treasure to nurse and cherish. Yet even now, in its artless babyhood, the shadow of a dark shame was hovering over its golden head, the name it bore was already smirched in the eyes of the world, and its father, who was responsible to God for its well-being, had already degraded it by his own shameful passion.
Ah! all men were the same. Her father was only the type of many others. They loved a woman, or said they loved her, and stayed beside her for a time, yet as soon as they grew weary of her, they flew to the arms of some newer fancy, and not even the sanctity of the marriage tie could restrain their brutal natures. Guy, whom she thought so good and kind, had turned out the same as his fellow men. He had been a good husband for a time, but now, grown weary of his quiet home, satiated with domestic love, weary of his prattling child, he had deliberately flung himself into the arms of this light-o'-love. Well, he would have his reward. The wages of sin is death! and he would be dragged down to destruction by those arms that encircled him so fondly.
But what about herself? What could she do in order to free herself from the companionship of this man who prized her less than he did his dissolute companions? Divorce! Yes, that was the way to break the chain which bound her to the husband she despised. But it was impossible that she could take advantage of the law, for it would reflect on the child in the future, and for the child's sake she would have to remain in the bondage of marriage.
Tearless, cold, and pale as a lily, she sat there with her hands clasping the hateful letter which told her of her husband's treachery and destroyed the happiness of her life. The child, weary of its toys, crawled across the carpet to her feet, and clutching her dress raised itself to its feet with a plaintive cry. She looked downward in dry-eyed misery, saw the wax-like tiny hands clasping her dress, and heard the thin little voice utter its inarticulate prayer to lie on her breast.
The full horror of her position broke on her dulled brain like a flash of light, and with a burst of tears she took up the child and strained him convulsively to her bosom.
Ah, how those tears fell--hot, scalding tears that blistered her cheeks, that burned into her very soul, and that fell on the frightened face of the baby like rain, bitter and salt as the waves of the sea. The child was afraid at this passionate outburst of sorrow and began to cry, but she held him close to her breast and, restraining her tears, hushed him to slumber with a low lullaby rocking to and fro, her heart heavy as lead.
"Alizon!"
With a cry she arose to her feet, the sleeping child in her arms, and saw her husband, travel-stained, worn, and haggard, standing at the door with a look of imploring agony on his face. She drew herself up to her full height and shrank against the wall, with one arm stretched out to keep him off, the other holding the tiny form of the child, and at her feet the crumpled letter that had been the cause of all this undoing.
Guy made a step forward and stretched out his arms.
"Alizon!"
"Don't--don't come near me!" she said in a low, hoarse voice, with a look of horror on her pale face.
"I come to explain----"
"Nothing can explain that," she answered, pointing to the letter on the floor, "nothing can explain that."
"I can explain it, if you will only listen," he said vehemently. The marks of tears were still on her cheeks, but no other traces of emotion remained to show how she had suffered.
As her husband spoke, a cold, scornful smile crept over her face, and she signed to him to go on, still shrinking against the wall with her arms folded round the child as if she would keep it from being contaminated by its father.
"I saw Aunt Jelly," said Sir Guy hurriedly, "and she told me what she had done. Written to you about--about Mrs. Veilsturm."
He brought out the hated name with a great effort, but his wife, neither shrinking nor wincing, stared straight at him with that terrible frozen smile on her face.
"She writes under a mistake," pursued Errington, clasping the back of a chair in his strong fingers as though he would crush it to dust. "It is not true what she says. I told her all about it and she believed me. I am going to tell you now, and you will believe me, will you not, Alizon?"
"I cannot tell."
The words dropped slowly from her mouth, and he flung out his arms towards her with a cry of anguish.
"You must believe me--you must, I tell you," he said breathlessly. "It is not true about that woman. I went up to Town with Eustace, and called at her house----"
A flush of angry red passed over her face, and she turned on him like a tigress.
"You called on her! You called on that woman!" she said in a clear, vibrating voice, tremulous with anger. "The woman about whom I told you--whom I would not receive, and you--you--my husband, dared to put this insult upon me."
"Alizon----"
"Don't speak further! I have heard enough. That letter is true, and you cannot deny it."
"I do deny it," he cried fiercely. "I tell you it is all a mistake. I forgot all about your refusal to receive Mrs. Veilsturm. Had I remembered I would not have gone."
"Ah!" she said with ineffable scorn, "if you had remembered. What excuse is that to make? Do my words weigh so lightly with you that you could forget them so easily? It was not for anything that Mrs. Veilsturm had done to me that I declined to receive her. But I heard my father, on his death-bed, speak of her--speak of her as men such as he was speak of such a woman as she is. I told you this, and yet you forget my words and visit her."
"As God is my judge, I did forget," he said desperately. "I did not think about it until it was too late."
"Ah, you did remember at last."
"Yes! only it was too late. I had been to her house and she----"
"And she," echoed his wife bitterly. "Oh, I well know what you are going to say. She did her best to captivate you with her vile arts, tried her hardest to win your heart from me----"
"But she did not succeed--she did not succeed," he said earnestly.
"Do you think I care if she did or if she did not?" replied Lady Errington scornfully. "Do you think I would place myself in rivalry with that woman? No! you have chosen her in preference to me, your lawful wife. Go to her as soon as you like, but don't dare to come near me."
"I will come near you," said Guy desperately. "You have no right to judge me like this."
"I have the right of a wronged woman."
"No, no! I swear you have not. On my soul; on my honour----"
"On your honour," she interrupted with a sneer, "the honour of a man who could act as you have done!"
"Whose fault is it if I have acted badly?" he cried, rendered desperate by her jeers.
"Do you mean to infer it's mine?" said his wife quietly.
He gnawed his moustache viciously and did not respond, whereupon she was about to ask the question again, when a knock came to the door and startled them both.
"It is the child's nurse," said Lady Errington, going to the door. "Wait a moment."
Guy turned towards the window so that the servant should not see how upset he was, and Lady Errington, opening the door, kept her face bent over the sleeping child as she placed it in Mrs. Tasker's arms.
"He's sound asleep, Nurse," she said quietly, as the old woman took him. "Take him up to the nursery, and I'll come to him in a short time."
Her voice was perfectly under control, and Mrs. Tasker never for a moment suspected anything was wrong between her master and mistress as she toiled slowly up the stairs carrying the child tenderly in her stout arms.
Lady Errington drew a long breath as Mrs. Tasker disappeared, and then, closing the door quietly, turned once more to her husband, who still stood looking out at the bright sunshine, which seemed to mock his misery by its glare and cheerful brilliancy.
"I am waiting for your answer," said his wife's steady voice behind him, whereupon he turned swiftly round, and crossing to where she stood, stern and silent by the table, caught one of her hands before she could prevent him.
"Alizon," he said earnestly, "for your own sake, for the sake of our child, listen to me quietly, and I will try and explain things to your satisfaction. I did go to Mrs. Veilsturm's, but I swear by all that is sacred, that I did not remember anything about her. Not even her name. Think for a moment, the whole affair passed in five minutes--your explanation was a hurried one, and you never referred to it again. It is eighteen months ago, and since then her name has never been mentioned between us, so you can hardly wonder that I quite forgot about the woman. Had I remembered, I would not have gone--give me at least that credit. I went innocently enough with Eustace, and Mrs. Veilsturm, I suppose out of revenge for the slight she received from you, was very attentive to me. I did not respond to her advances in any way, and saw as little of her as I could. I was not responsible for the coupling of our names together. You know how the world talks and magnifies the most innocent things into evidences of guilt. The scandal reached the ears of my aunt, and she, innocently enough, wrote that letter to you--a letter which she now bitterly regrets having sent to you. When she told me about it, I explained all, and she asked my pardon for having written the letter. I came down here at once to tell you everything, and I have now done so. On my honour, Alizon, that is the whole affair. I acted wrongly in forgetting about Mrs. Veilsturm's past, and I ask your pardon. Let this misunderstanding cease between us. I love you dearly. I have always loved you, never so much as now. Do not let our lives be blighted like this. I have acted wrongly, and I ask your pardon. You in your turn grant it to me, and let us forget this terrible mistake."
All the time he was pleading, she listened to him without any sign of emotion, her face looking impassable as a marble mask, but at the conclusion of his speech, she withdrew her hand from his with a cold smile of disbelief, which showed how little his tenderness affected her.
"Your explanation would satisfy the world," she said with chilly dignity, "but it does not satisfy me. I cannot believe that you forgot about my refusal to receive Mrs. Veilsturm. Even if you did forget, that only makes your conduct worse, for you still went to visit her after you recollected the affair, as you acknowledge yourself. I have been a good wife to you, I have been a good mother to your child, and in return you have not even given me the common fidelity of a husband, which every woman has a right to expect."
"I see it is no use pleading to a cold piece of perfection like you," said Guy, drawing himself up with dignity. "I have stooped to explain this affair, and you decline to believe me. I can do no more. You are convinced, without the shadow of a reason, that I am vile, and it is impossible for me to undeceive you further than I have done. Under these circumstances it is impossible for us to live together as man and wife. You doubt me, and I resent your doing so, therefore it will be best for us to at once make some arrangement about our future lives."
He spoke calmly enough, but his heart was hot with indignation, that he should receive such treatment from the woman he loved best on earth. He was innocent, and he knew himself to be innocent, therefore all his nature rose in revolt against the unjust attitude taken up by his wife.
She, on her side, was also indignant, deeming that his explanation was false from beginning to end, so she refused to forgive him, or to believe the skilful tissue of falsehoods he had put forward as a plea for her mercy.
It was a case of misunderstanding on both sides, and as the stubborn pride of each refused to bend, nothing was now left but separation.
"For the sake of the child," she said coldly, "I am unwilling there should be any scandal, so it will be best for me to stay down here to look after the boy, and you can take up your abode in London, or wherever else it pleases you. Regarding money matters, I presume you will allow me sufficient to live on in a style befitting the mistress of this place. My life will be devoted to bringing up the child, yours--well, I have nothing to do with that, and you are free to act as you desire. These are the only terms upon which I will consent to pass over the matter, and I think there is nothing more to be said."
Slowly and deliberately she uttered these cruel words, which fell like ice on his heart, and showed him how utterly futile it was to hope for any reconcilement with this pure woman, so pure that she could neither understand nor forgive the infidelity of which she accused him. All his manhood arose in rebellion against such treatment, and, mad with anger, he stepped to her side as she turned to leave the room.
"There is more to be said," he cried furiously. "I have told you the truth, which you decline to believe. But if I had conducted myself as you say--if I had voluntarily gone to this woman whom you hate, who is to blame, you or I? Have I not been a good husband to you since our marriage? Have I not striven by every means in my power to win your heart? and what have I received in return?--cold words and frigid smiles. Do you think that I did not feel all this? Yes, I did feel it, but you, wrapped up in your icy nature, cannot understand my feelings."
"I have treated you with all respect----"
"Respect! Respect!" he reiterated bitterly. "I ask for love, you give me respect. I ask for bread, you offer me a stone. All the feelings of my heart have been crushed down by your cold superiority, by your chilly self-respect, which forbade you giving to me those attentions that other men receive from their wives."
"You dare to talk to me like this," she said angrily, "you, who have had no respect either for me or for your child!"
"Ah, the child," he retorted with a sneering laugh, "it was the child that came between us. You have lavished upon it all the love and affection which is due to me. Am I not the child's father? Why should you treat me as if I were a block of marble? In my own house I have been lonely. In my own house I have been neglected, while you, leaving me to starve, gave all your love to the child."
"Is it a crime for a mother to love her child?"
"No, it is no crime. I did not say it was. But it is a crime--worse than a crime--to cherish and love the child to the exclusion of the husband and father. The husband has the first claim on the wife's heart, the child the second."
"You are wrong."
"No, I am right," he replied vehemently, "and if driven forth by neglect, and hungry for love, I left my home to go to another woman, you reproach me for what is your own work! But I have not done so. I have been as true to you as you have been to me. Alizon, let things be as they were before this miserable misunderstanding, and let there be love and affection between us. I will forgive you all the neglect I have suffered these eighteen months, if you will overlook my forgetfulness about Mrs. Veilsturm, and act towards me as a wife should act."
"You forgive me," she said contemptuously, "you forgive me? No. It is I who have the right to do that. I do not forgive you. I never shall."
"Are those your last words?"
"My last words."
Errington looked at her in silence for a moment, and then, without a word, walked towards the door of the room, at which he paused.
"I have implored and entreated you to be merciful," he said, with terrible calmness, "you have refused to grant what I ask. Now I go back to London, to Mrs. Veilsturm, the woman you despise so much. You have driven me to this, and the result of it rests on your own head. You do not love me, you never have loved me, so I leave you alone in your immaculate purity, to forget the man whom you have despised and wronged."
He was gone before she could utter a word, and she was left alone in the room, alone in the world, with nothing but her child to comfort her in the hour of need.
"The sea is cruel, its white waves hide me,Lo I am weary and scant of breath,Thou to a haven of safety guide me,Stretch out thy hand, lest I swoon to death."Thou art my God in this hour of peril,Yet in thy sight, I am lost and vile,All thy love, as the sea is sterile,I sink, I perish, beneath thy smile."
"The sea is cruel, its white waves hide me,Lo I am weary and scant of breath,Thou to a haven of safety guide me,Stretch out thy hand, lest I swoon to death.
"Thou art my God in this hour of peril,Yet in thy sight, I am lost and vile,All thy love, as the sea is sterile,I sink, I perish, beneath thy smile."
There are always two sides to a question, especially to the question of marriage.
One side is invariably taken by the husband, the other by the wife.
Both claim their side to be right, and, as this is an impossibility, one side must be wrong.
Which?
It is a difficult question to settle, more difficult than the judgment of Solomon, more difficult than the judgment of Paris, and though the world, represented by the Law, generally plays the part of arbitrator in conjugal disputes, in this case it was referred to neither by the husband nor the wife.
Under these circumstances it will be as well to argue both sides fairly, and pronounce a verdict in favour of the strongest.
A case for the opinion of Society, unrepresented by any legal tribunal, the parties concerned conducting their own cases personally.
On the part of the wife--
"When I married Guy Errington, I had no belief whatsoever in the masculine sex, such scepticism being due to my knowledge of the character of my father, Gabriel Mostyn. Before his illness I lived in almost conventual seclusion, and from the reading of books formed an ideal world, which I have since found to be as unreal as the fantastic visions of Oriental dreamers.
"My world was based upon a delusive belief in the chivalry of men and the purity of women, and resembled in its visionary loveliness the Garden of Eden, before Eve tempted Adam with the fatal fruit. In this unreal world men were always young, handsome and true-hearted, while the women were beautiful in their forms and faces, pure in their lives. I dreamed that some day I, an inhabitant of this beautiful universe, would meet with a lover who would dedicate his life to mine, and we would go through life side by side in love and purity, until we exchanged this heaven upon earth for one even fairer.
"Alas! these were but the virginal dreams of a girl, unsullied by contact with the world, and my ideal life was shattered by the vile cynicism of my father, who took a delight in destroying all my illusions, and in dragging me down from the light of fancy to the darkness of reality.
"So evil had been his life, that no one would stay by him in his hour of need, and I, a young girl, unsophisticated and innocent, was forced to remain beside his bed. To him I dedicated my youth, my innocence, my womanly feeling, my filial tenderness, and received as a reward a brutal unveiling of the most horrible things on earth. When I went to his bedside at the beginning of those four bitter years I was an innocent girl, when I turned away, leaving him stiff and stark in his coffin, I was, in knowledge, an accomplished woman of the world. I believed in no one. I doubted the motives of all. I looked upon my fellow-creatures as birds of prey who would turn and rend me were I not dexterous enough to foil them with their own weapons. Is it then to be wondered at that I dreaded marriage with a man who would doubtless be as evil in his thoughts and deeds as was my father?
"Had I been in receipt of a sufficient income to keep me from starving, had I been able to earn my own living, I would never have married; but under the grudging hospitality of my relatives, and the iron grip of poverty, the strongest resolution must give way. I was no heroine to battle with the merciless world as represented to me by my father, so, in despair, I married Guy Errington.
"To my surprise and delight, I found him to resemble the ideal inhabitants of my fanciful world, and honoured and respected him for those qualities which I had never seen in my father. He was good, kind, loving and tender, all of which qualities to me, in a man, were like a revelation from God. Still, the teachings of my father could not be easily eradicated, and I dreaded lest some chance should rend the veil which hid his real nature and show me the innate brutality which my father assured me existed in all mankind.
"Meanwhile, I was thankful for his kindness, and strove to show by every means in my power how I reciprocated his love. If he accuses me of coldness, I can offer no defence. I am not a demonstrative woman, as all my timid outbursts of affection were ruthlessly crushed by my father, and self-restraint has become a habit with me. Besides, dreading lest my married happiness should not last, I wore my coldness as an armour against a possible disappointment.
"I loved my husband, but the invincible mistrust which my father had inculcated in my breast isolated me during the earlier portion of our married life, and I was afraid to let my husband see how much I loved him, lest he took advantage of such confidence. Still, I wanted something to love, something that I could worship, could cling to, something that I could trust in fully and that would not deceive me.
"It came at last, a pure, little, white soul from the hand of God; and to my child I gave the whole of the love, the adoration, the passion, which had been pent up in my breast for so many years for want of some one on whom I could bestow them without fear of the consequence.
"My husband hated to see me so fond of the child, for his jealous nature would be content with nothing but undivided love, and in spite of my desire to make him happy, I could not leave my child unloved in order to pander to his selfish passion. He resented my reproval of his folly and withdrew himself from my society, so that I had no one to love but my child, and, although we lived in the same house, the poles were not further asunder than we were.
"Then she came between us--that vile woman whom my father knew in South America--and my husband, weary of his home, of his wife, of his child, left all to go to her. What wife could put up with such an insult? Had it been any other woman, it would have been bad enough, but this special woman whom he knew I despised, whom he knew from my lips to be an infamous creature, this was the woman for whom he forsook me.
"How can I believe his explanations? They are all false, glibly as they are uttered. No! I am deceived no longer, he is the same as my father, and seeks only the selfish gratification of his own appetites. The end has come, as I knew it would--the mask is torn off, and I see my husband, whom I loved and trusted during the early days of our marriage, as he really is. My father was right; there is no faith, honour, honesty, nor truth, in men; and I have only acted rightly in refusing to live with a man who could behave so to his wife and child.
"Even now he is with that woman, on the feeble plea that my coldness drove him away. Does that excuse his vice? No! He should have waited until perfect love, perfect understanding, was established between us, but now we are parted for ever. He has gone back to the life most congenial to him, and I--I, like many other women, can do nothing but pray that my son may not grow up to follow in the evil footsteps of his father."
On the part of the husband--
"Saints do not live among men, except in the canonization of the Church, and before my marriage I was neither better nor worse than any other young man. But without being either a Saint Anthony or a Saint Francis, I did my best to lead a decent life in every way, and if I had a few vices--or what ascetics term vices--they were so small that they were invisible except to the microscope of certain Pharisees who pass their lives in finding out their neighbours' faults, and thanking God they are not as other men are.
"I loved my wife from the first moment I saw her, being in the first place attracted by the beauty of her person, and in the second by the difference in her nature to that of other women. I do not put myself forward either as a deep thinker or as a student of humanity, but must confess I grew weary of the ordinary Society woman, married or unmarried. They talked in a frivolous fashion of the most trivial things, but Alizon Mostyn attracted me by the charm of her conversation, not that she was very learned, or particularly brilliant, but she talked of ordinary matters in an original way, which was wonderfully fascinating. I loved her dearly, and saw in this pale, quiet girl, one who would be a companion to me, who would make me a better man, and aid me to lead my life on a higher plane to that which I had hitherto done.
"It was for this reason I married her, and though she was cold in her manner towards me, this very coldness had a certain charm about it which I could not resist. I knew that she had been badly treated by her father, so strove in every way by tenderness and love to make amends for the misery of her early life.
"After marriage I was perfectly satisfied with my wife, and although at times her persistent coldness wounded me, yet I thought by unfailing love and attention to make her open her heart to me. No doubt I would have achieved this object if it had not been for the birth of the child, which has, in a great measure, been the cause of all the trouble of our later married life.
"I was glad to welcome the child, as I thought it would form a new link between us, and by thawing her frigid disposition draw us closer together. But, instead of doing this, the boy was the cause of our estrangement, as she lavished upon him all the love of which her nature was capable, and I was persistently neglected.
"No doubt the world would think I had little to complain of--my wife was perfect, both in her conjugal and maternal capacity--the only trouble being the cherishing of the child to the neglect of the father.
"But, look at the matter from my point of view. I had married my wife for companionship, for the sake of satisfying the craving of human nature to be loved, and instead of my ideas being realized, I found myself shut out of Paradise, while my wife, with her child, rested happily within. She was never away from the boy, and day after day I was forced to live a lonely life, neglected and uncared for by a woman I adored. All her ideas, conversation, and desires, were bound up in the child, so that she had neither the time nor inclination to take an interest in my pursuits, or in my life. We dwelt together as man and wife, to all appearances we were a happy and attached couple, yet the child stood between us, like an evil shadow, which isolated us the one from the other. Often I tried to break down this barrier, by praising the child, but the mother seemed jealous even of the father; she wanted the child all to herself, and, secure in such possession, was contented to treat her husband as an ordinary friend.
"I resented this state of things, I revolted at being condemned to occupy such an isolated position, but I could do nothing. My wife was perfect in every other way, and to have complained would have been ridiculous, so I was forced to suffer in silence. God alone knows how I did suffer in the solitude to which I was condemned, at seeing the love and caresses bestowed on the child, love and caresses in which I had no share. All her life was in the child, and she possessed him. My life was in her--and I was a stranger to her in every way.
"Under the circumstances I thought it best to go away for a few weeks, thinking that she would miss me in some little measure, and would be more affectionate and tender when I returned. Whether such an idea was right or wrong I do not know, I never shall know, for between our parting and our meeting occurred the episode of Mrs. Veilsturm.
"On my honour, I went innocently enough into the presence of this woman. I had forgotten all about my wife's refusal to receive her, for had I remembered I certainly would not have gone. But, as I said before, I had forgotten. I had never seen the woman; I did not even know her name. How then was I to recollect the episode of eighteen months before?--an episode the memory of which had not lasted longer than a few days.
"I went to Mrs. Veilsturm's 'At home.' I found her a charming woman, and, at her express invitation, I went often to her house. She was different from the ordinary run of women, and I took pleasure in her society, but there was no warmer feeling between us, at least, not on my part. With the scandal of the world I have nothing to do, sin and purity are treated the same way, and the mere fact of my being once or twice seen with Mrs. Veilsturm was sufficient to set afloat the lying story which came to my wife's ears through the medium of Aunt Jelly.
"To my wife I told the whole story, but she refused to believe me. I confessed that I had remembered about Mrs. Veilsturm when it was too late, but she accused me of knowing the truth from the first, and of having wilfully acted as I had done. Nothing I could say could shake her belief in this matter, and she swore she would never forgive me for the insult I had placed upon her.
"What could I do? Nothing! except retire from the scene. In vain I assured her of my complete innocence. She refused to believe my statement, and drove me from her presence--from my home--with cruel words. This woman, wrapped up in an armour of purity--of selfish purity--could not credit my innocence in any way. She judged me from the 'I-would-not-have-acted-thus' standpoint, and insisted that I had betrayed her basely, although she had no further proof than the gossip of the world.
"I left her. I came back to London to see Mrs. Veilsturm again. It is wrong--I know it is wrong--but what am I to do? Live an isolated existence, pass days and nights of abject misery, only to pander to her self-righteous ideas? For eighteen months, in spite of all my tenderness and love, she has wilfully neglected me, she has refused to acknowledge that I have been a good husband, she has rendered my life miserable, and now she has driven me forth from my own home on account of a sin--if it can be called so--of which I am guiltless.
"What am I to do? Live the life of a hermit in order to right myself in her eyes and be called back and pardoned, as if I were indeed guilty? No! I will not do so. It is her fault, not mine, that I am placed in such a miserable position. Unable to win her by tenderness, by love, I will henceforth live my own life and see what neglect will do. For every pang she has inflicted upon me I will inflict a pang upon her, for her months of neglect I will repay her in full, for her coldness I will give coldness in my turn, and to any remonstrances she may offer I will say then what I say now--'It is your work.'"
So far the cases of husband and wife, each arguing from their own point of view. Now which of them is right, the man or the woman? The husband who strove to win his wife's love, or the wife who refused to give the husband that love which was his due.
Errington was now acting wrongly, as he himself knew; he was voluntarily flinging himself into the arms of a woman whom he knew to be worthless, but who can say he had no provocation? He had done his best to win his wife's love, he had suffered in silence during the period of his married life, and in return she had shamefully neglected him, and had finally, with hardly any proof, accused him of voluntarily making a friend of a worthless woman. Outraged by this treatment, the husband left her presence, and she had driven him into the very jaws of destruction.
Doubtless he should have stood firm, and by years of patient self-sacrifice showed her that she was wrong. But how many of us are capable of such asceticism? How many of us would stand for long years in the outer darkness, knowing himself to be guiltless of the crime laid to his charge?
This woman--pure wife, affectionate mother, as she was--had acted as if she were above the weaknesses of human nature. She had arrogated to herself the functions of the Deity in judging and condemning a poor human soul, who, weary with beseeching for what it never received, fell away in despair into the gulf of sin and misery.
Who was wrong--the man who sought evil in despair, or the woman whose coldness and purity had denied him the mercy which would have saved him?
"To my chariot wheels have I bound him,To bear him in triumph away;As master and king have I crowned him,To reign but the length of a day.I woo but to kiss and betray him,We meet but a moment to part;In the hour of his joy will I slay him,wheels will go over his heart."
"To my chariot wheels have I bound him,
To bear him in triumph away;
As master and king have I crowned him,
To reign but the length of a day.
I woo but to kiss and betray him,
We meet but a moment to part;
In the hour of his joy will I slay him,
wheels will go over his heart."
Mrs. Veilsturm's drawing-room was not by any means an artistic apartment, being full of violent contrasts in the way of decoration and furniture, yet not without a certain picturesqueness of its own. It was bizarre, gaudy, fantastic, strange, and a faithful reflection of the curious mind of its mistress. The European side of her nature inspired her with a certain amount of artistic taste, while the African blood in her veins made her delight in brilliant colouring and barbaric ornamentation. The eyes ached as they rested on the confused mass of tints, variegated as a flower-garden, and yet there was a certain design and harmony throughout, something like the tangled patterns of those Oriental carpets, those Indian shawls, which represent the cloudy splendours haunting an Eastern mind.
The paper on the walls of this room, oblong and lofty, was of a dark-red tint, stamped with golden sunflowers rising from their velvety-green leaves. Delicate lace curtains of milky white, interwoven with threads of silver, fell before the three long windows, from under massive gilt cornices. The carpet was of black and yellow stripes in undulating lines, like the skin of a tiger, and here and there a rug of silky-white hair contrasted curiously with the fantastic ground upon which it rested. The furniture was of dark walnut, upholstered with bright yellow satin, smooth and shining as the inside of a buttercup.
In the corners of the room stood slender palms with heavily-drooping leaves, vividly-green ferns with feathery fronds, prickly, fleshy cactus and spiky, fan-shaped plants, suggestive of tropical skies--some rising from the porous red jars of Egypt, others springing from misshapen vases of porcelain, on which, in crimson and green, sprawled the sacred Chinese dragon, and a few growing in shallow basins of pale-yellow pottery.
At the end of the room, behind the veil of Indian bead curtains, was a cool-looking conservatory, skilfully lighted by electric lamps in globes of pale green, which diffused a kind of fictitious moonlight. In the drawing-room the mass of colour, strange and incongruous, was softened, blended, and confused by the tremulous red light that streamed from the tall brass lamps with their umbrella-like shades of crimson silk. Add to this fantasy of light and colour, the sickly odours of the pastilles constantly burning, and it can be imagined how curiously appropriate this strange room was to the rich Eastern beauty and oddly barbaric costume of Cleopatra.
On this night, having been down at Hurlingham, she was too tired to go out, so preferred to remain at home and receive a few friends.
At present, she was lying negligently back in a low chair, arrayed in her favourite costume of amber and black, but, despite the attentions of Dolly Thambits, who was talking to her, she seemed to be out of temper. Mr. Jiddy, seated on the extreme edge of a chair like a white cat, was listening to the conversation of Major Griff, who, stiff and grim, was leaning against the mantelpiece. No other people were present, nor did Mrs. Veilsturm seem very much inclined to receive company, for she yawned once or twice, and looked at the Major significantly, as if to hint that he might take away Mr. Thambits and friend as soon as he liked.
The Major, however, wanted to speak to Mrs. Veilsturm himself, so he did not take the hint, but resolutely waited on, in the hope that the two young men would shortly depart and leave him alone with the charming widow. Meanwhile he chatted about pigeon-shooting to Mr. Jiddy, who knew nothing about it, and Thambits bored Mrs. Veilsturm to death by his dreary small talk.
"I say, you know," drawled Dolly, after a pause, during which Mrs. Veilsturm had been wondering how she could get rid of him, "what about your fancy-dress ball?"
"Oh, I've put it off," replied Mrs. Veilsturm idly, "a week or two does not make much difference, and my costume was not ready."
"What are you going to appear as?"
"Ah! that is the question," said Cleopatra smiling. "I'm not going to tell you. I'm not going to tell anyone. I will appear at my own ball in the most unexpected fashion."
"Like a surprise packet?"
"Yes! as you elegantly put it--like a surprise packet."
"Oh, that's jolly," observed Mr. Thambits brilliantly, then relapsed into silence.
"I say, Mrs. Veilsturm!" he said at last.
"Yes."
"Errington's gone to the country again."
Mrs. Veilsturm could not suppress an angry start at this information. She had missed Guy for the last three or four days, and, having heard nothing from him since she received his note excusing himself from coming to the Marlowe Theatre, was considerably enraged at this neglect. She was too clever, however, to betray herself to Dolly Thambits, who was jealously vigilant, so she asked quietly:
"Indeed! who told you so?"
"Gartney! He went about four days ago. Got tired of Town, I suppose."
"No doubt! Town does get wearisome at times."
"I don't think so while you are here," said Mr. Thambits tenderly.
"What a charming compliment," answered Mrs. Veilsturm with a forced laugh, shutting her fan savagely, for when Dolly was amorous he was simply detestable.
"Not to you," he murmured softly.
"More compliments," she said coolly. "You must pass your days making them up. By-the-way, would you mind telling me the time?"
"Certainly. It is now a few minutes past nine."
"Oh, I say, is it?" cried Mr. Jiddy, jumping up from his chair. "I say, Dolly, we've got to go to Lady Kalsmith's you know."
"I thought you were coming also, Mrs. Veilsturm?" said Dolly, rising reluctantly.
"I! No," she answered, lifting her eyebrows. "Would I be dressed like this if I were going?"
"Mrs. Veilsturm," explained Major Griff, graciously, "is too tired to go out to-night, and thinks a rest will do her good."
"I'm afraid we've tired you," said Thambits, looking at his divinity.
"Oh dear, not at all," responded Mrs. Veilsturm, lying with the utmost dexterity. "So glad to see you.Au revoirat present."
"I'll call and see if you are better to-morrow," said Dolly, making his adieux with manifest reluctance.
"Delighted! goodbye, Mr. Jiddy! Major?"
Grill took the hint, and ushered Dolly and his friend out of the room before they had time to change their minds, and having seen them safely bestowed in a hansom, returned to Mrs. Veilsturm, whom he found sitting in her old place, frowning savagely at the fireplace. The Major resumed his lounging attitude on the hearthrug, and lighted a cigarette.
"Don't smoke," said Mrs. Veilsturm sharply. "I don't want my drawing-room to smell like a bar."
"There's not much chance of that," retorted the Major coolly, throwing the match into the fireplace, and blowing a cloud of smoke. "No one will come to-night, and those abominable pastilles you are so fond of burning will dissipate the smoke by to-morrow."
Mrs. Veilsturm offered no further remonstrance, but tapped her fan thoughtfully in the palm of her hand. Major Griff watched her in silence for a moment, and then made a polite remark.
"You're a fool, Maraquita."
"And why?"
"Because you're thinking about that young Errington. He's no good to us."
"Us! Us!" she reiterated savagely, "always us! Do you think I've nothing else to do but to think of you?"
"At present, No," replied Griff coolly. "Now don't get in a rage, my dear. It doesn't improve your looks, and certainly does not carry any weight with me. I tell you again you're a fool for thinking about Errington. He's gone back to his wife in spite of your cleverness. Didn't you hear that idiot say so?"
"Yes!"
"Well?"
"Well!" she echoed scornfully, raising her eyes to his face, "what of that? Do you think I'm going to let him go so easily?"
"I don't see you've much option in the matter," said Griff grimly.
"You see nothing except what suits your own ends."
"Very likely. That's the way to succeed in the world."
"You don't seem to have made much headway yet," replied Cleopatra with a sneer.
"Oh, pretty well--pretty well," said the Major airily. "I think this room--this house--your dress--your diamonds--your position--are all evidences of success. And we'll do better if you only keep your head clear, and not sacrifice everything for this Errington."
"I don't intend to sacrifice anything for Sir Guy Errington," she replied viciously, "but I intend he shall sacrifice all for me; his wife! his home! his honour! all he holds dearest in the world."
"And then?"
"And then he can go his own way. I have done with him," said Mrs. Veilsturm calmly.
"I wouldn't talk in such a melodramatic fashion if I were you," observed Griff leisurely, "revenge is all very well on the stage, but it's silly in real life. You stand to gain nothing, and lose a good deal."
"Do you think I can forget the insult his wife put upon me?"
"Well then punish the wife."
"I intend to--through the husband."
"Now look here, Maraquita," said her partner earnestly, emphasizing his remarks with his finger. "You take care what you're about. We've had a good time in London, but the game is pretty well played out. It's always advisable to leave a place with flying colours, so that one can come back again. People are talking about you already, don't let them talk any more, or you'll find all your lady friends give you the cold shoulder, and if they do, you may rest assured they won't be satisfied till they induce their husbands, fathers, and brothers to follow their example. I don't see the fun of such a scandal, especially as there's nothing to be got out of Errington. He's as poor as a church mouse. So leave him alone, and after the ball, we can go for America in good odour with everyone, and after a year or two in the States, we can come back here when a new generation arises that don't know Joseph. My advice is sound, Maraquita, and you know it."
Mrs. Veilsturm sat perfectly still during this speech, with her eyes cast down on the closed fan lying on her lap, but when the Major ended, she looked up suddenly with a sombre frown on her face.
"I've made up my mind what to do, and neither you nor anyone else will turn me from my purpose."
Major Griff shrugged his shoulders and walked slowly to the other end of the room. He was a man who never wasted words, and seeing from the set expression of Mrs. Veilsturm's face that she was determined to carry out her purpose, he judged it useless to argue about the matter. Yet, although he kept his temper well under control, he could not help saying something disagreeable to this woman who was sacrificing everything for the sake of revenge.
"In spite of your cleverness, my dear Maraquita, I shrewdly suspect that Sir Guy sees through your little game, he has placed himself beyond the reach of temptation."
"He will come back," she said curtly.
"I doubt it. The moth does not come back to the flame that has once singed its wings. The fly doesn't trust itself in the spider's web a second time."
"He will come back."
The Major returned to the fireplace, produced his pocketbook in the most leisurely manner, and took a gold pencil case hanging at the end of his chain in his fingers.
"I'll bet you the worth of that diamond star in your hair he does not."
"Don't be rash, the star cost two hundred pounds."
"So. I'll lay you two hundred pounds to the promise that you'll behave decently, that Errington does not come back."
Mrs. Veilsturm opened her fan with a grand wave, and looked at him serenely.
"Book it," she said curtly.
Major Griff did so, and restored the book to his pocket. "Well, I must be off," he said, stretching himself. "I want to see Dolser about putting a paragraph in his paper concerning the ball. Can I do anything for you?"
"Nothing, thank you. Good-night."
"Good-night."
He went towards the door, and without vouchsafing a glance at her, left the room.
If Mrs. Veilsturm was tired, she did not make any attempt to go to bed, but remained seated in her chair pondering over the position of affairs.
She was not by any means as confident over Errington's return as she pretended to be, for she was far too clever a woman to misjudge the impression she had made. Guy had gone away from Town without a word of farewell; therefore she was easily satisfied that he was still heart-whole. As he had acted thus, she could do absolutely nothing, for he certainly would not come back to a woman about whom he did not care. And yet she had done everything in her power to entangle him in her nets. The fool, to leave a woman like her for a pale, sickly wife. Were her charms fading, that he had treated her so scornfully? Was the prize not worth the winning? Was there really a man in the world who could turn coldly away from her beauty when she smiled invitation?
As these thoughts passed through her mind, she arose from her chair rapidly, and leaning her arms on the white marble mantelpiece, examined her face carefully in the glass. The rich, dusky skin, through which flushed redly the hot blood, the delicately drawn eyebrows, arched over the liquid eyes, the shining coils of hair above the low forehead, the full, red lips, the shell-like ears, tinged with pink, the slender neck; she examined them all in a severely critical fashion, and saw that there was no flaw anywhere. A slow smile of triumph curved the corners of her mouth as she looked at her beautiful face in the mirror, and she turned away exulting in her physical perfection.
"Can he resist me?" she whispered to her heart, and her heart answered, "No."
At this moment a servant entered the room with a magnificent bouquet of white lilies, which he presented to his mistress, and then retired. She held them in her hands, inhaling their faint perfume, and admiring the stainless purity of their deep cups; then, catching sight of a card thrust into the centre of the flowers, she took it out to read the name.
"Sir Guy Errington."
With a low laugh of triumph she tossed the flowers on the table, and, with the card still in her hand, swept across the room to a desk of rosewood near the window. Sitting down she wrote a note to Major Griff: