Thelma
to be--"
"You believe the lies of a servant?" suddenly cried Lady Winsleigh
wrathfully.
"Have not _you_ believed the lies of Sir Francis Lennox, who is less
honest than a servant?" asked her husband, his grave voice deepening
with a thrill of passion. "And haven't you reported them everywhere as
truths? But as regards your maid--I doubted her story altogether. She
assured me she knew what money you took out with you yesterday, and what
you returned with--and as the only place you visited in the morning was
the Brilliant Theatre,--after having received a telegram from Lennox,
which she saw,--it was easy for her to put two and two together,
especially as she noticed you reading the letter you had
purchased--moreover"--he paused--"she has heard certain conversations
between you and Sir Francis, notably one that took place at the
garden-party in the summer at Errington Manor. Spy? you say? your
detective has been paid by you,--fed and kept about your own person,--to
minister to your vanity and to flatter your pride--that she has turned
informer against you is not surprising. Be thankful that her information
has fallen into no more malignant hands than mine!"
Again he paused--she was still silent--but her lips trembled nervously.
"And yet I was loth to believe everything"--he resumed half sadly--"till
Errington came and showed me that letter and told me the whole story of
his misery. Even then I thought I would give you one more chance--that's
why I brought him to you and asked you the question before him. One look
at your face told me you were guilty, though you denied it. I should
have been better pleased had you confessed it! But why talk about it any
longer?--the mischief is done--I trust it is not irreparable. I
certainly consider that before troubling that poor girl's
happiness,--you should have taken the precaution to inquire a little
further into the truth of the reports you heard from Sir Francis
Lennox,--he is not a reliable authority on any question whatsoever. You
may have thought him so--" he stopped short and regarded her with
sorrowful sternness--"I say, Clara, you may have thought him so,
once--but _now_? Are you proud to have shared his affections
with--Violet Vere?"
She uttered a sharp cry and covered her face with her hands,--an action
which appeared to smite her husband to the heart,--for his voice
trembled with deep feeling when he next spoke.
"Ah, best hide it, Clara!" he said passionately. "Hide that fair face I
loved so well--hide those eyes in which I dreamed of finding my life's
sunshine! Clara, Clara! What can I say to you, fallen rose of womanhood?
How can I--" he suddenly bent over her as though to caress her, then drew
back with a quick agonized sigh. "You thought me blind, Clara! . . ."
he went on in low tones, "blind to my own dishonor--blind to your
faithlessness,--I tell you if you had taken my heart between your hands
and wrung the blood out of it drop by drop, I could not have suffered
more than I have done! Why have I been silent so long?--no matter
why,--but _now_, now Clara,--this life of ours must end!"
She shuddered away from him.
"End it then!" she muttered in a choked voice. "You can do as you
like,--you can divorce me."
"Yes," said Lord Winsleigh musingly. "I can divorce you! There will be
no defense possible,--as you know. If witnesses are needed, they are to
be had in the persons of our own domestics. The co-respondent in the
case will not refute the charge against him,--and I, the plaintiff,
_must_ win my just cause. Do you realize it all, Clara? You, the
well-known leader of a large social circle--you, the proud beauty and
envied lady of rank and fashion,--you will be made a subject for the
coarse jests of lawyers,--the very judge on the bench will probably play
off his stale witticism at your expense,--your dearest friends will tear
your name to shreds,--the newspapers will reek of your doings,--and
honest housemaids reading of your fall from your high estate, will thank
God that their souls and bodies are more chaste than yours! And
last,--not least,--think when old age creeps on, and your beauty
withers,--think of your son grown to manhood,--the sole heir to my
name,--think of him as having but one thing to blush for--the memory of
his dishonored mother!"
"Cruel--cruel!" she cried, endeavoring to check her sobs, and
withdrawing her hands from her face. "Why do you say such things to me?
Why did you marry me?"
He caught her hands and held them in a fast grip.
"Why? Because I loved you, Clara--loved you with all the tenderness of a
strong man's heart! When I first saw you, you seemed to me the very
incarnation of maiden purity and loveliness! The days of our
courtship--the first few months of our marriage--what they were to you,
I know not,--to me they were supreme happiness. When our boy was born,
my adoration, my reverence for you increased--you were so sacred in my
eyes, that I could have knelt and asked a benediction from these little
hands"--here he gently loosened them from his clasp. "Then came the
change--_what_ changed you, I cannot imagine--it has always seemed to me
unnatural, monstrous, incredible! There was no falling away in _my_
affection, that I can swear! My curse upon the man who turned your heart
from mine! So rightful and deep a curse is it that I feel it must some
day strike home."
He paused and seemed to reflect. "Who is there more vile, more
traitorous than he?" he went on. "Has he not tried to influence
Errington's wife against her husband? For what base purpose? But
Clara,--he is powerless against _her_ purity and innocence;--what, in
the name of God, gave him power over _you_?"
She drooped her head, and the hot blood rushed to her face.
"You've said enough!" she murmured sullenly. "If you have decided on a
divorce, pray carry out your intention with the least possible delay. I
cannot talk any more! I--I am tired!"
"Clara," said her husband solemnly, with a strange light in his eyes, "I
would rather kill you than divorce you!"
There was something so terribly earnest in his tone that her heart beat
fast with fear.
"Kill me?--kill me?" she gasped, with white lips.
"Yes!" he repeated, "kill you,--as a Frenchman or an Italian would,--and
take the consequences. Yes--though an Englishman, I would rather do this
than drag your frail poor womanhood through the mire of public scandal!
I have, perhaps, a strange nature, but such as I am, I am. There are too
many of our high-born families already, flaunting their immorality and
low licentiousness in the face of the mocking, grinning populace,--I for
one could never make up my mind to fling the honor of my son's mother to
them, as though it were a bone for dogs to fight over. No--I have
another proposition to make to you--"
He stopped short. She stared at him wonderingly. He resumed in
methodical, unmoved, business-like tones.
"I propose, Clara, simply,--to leave you! I'll take the boy and absent
myself from this country, so as to give you perfect freedom and save you
all trouble. There'll be no possibility of scandal, for I will keep you
cognizant of my movements,--and should you require my presence at any
time for the sake of appearances,--or--to shield you from calumny,--you
may rely on my returning to you at once,--without delay. Ernest will
gain many advantages by travel,--his education is quite a sufficient
motive for my departure, my interest in his young life being well known
to all our circle. Moreover, with me--under my surveillance--he need
never know anything against--against you. I have always taught him to
honor and obey you in his heart."
Lord Winsleigh paused a moment--then went on, somewhat musingly;--"When
he was quite little, he used to wonder why you didn't love him,--it was
hard for me to hear him say that, sometimes. But I always told him that
you did love him--but that you had so many visits to makes and so many
friends to entertain, that you had no time to play with him. I don't
think he quite understood,--but still--I did my best!"
He was silent. She had hidden her face again in her hands, and he heard
a sound of smothered sobbing.
"I think," he continued calmly, "that he has a great reverence for you
in his young heart--a feeling which partakes, perhaps, more of fear than
love--still it is better than--disdain--or--or disrespect. I shall
always teach him to esteem you highly,--but I think, as matters
stand--if I relieve you of all your responsibilities to husband and
son--you--Clara!--pray don't distress yourself--there's no occasion for
this--Clara--"
For on a sudden impulse she had flung herself at his feet in an
irrepressible storm of passionate weeping.
"Kill me, Harry!" she sobbed wildly, clinging to him. "Kill me! don't
speak to me like this!--don't leave me! Oh, my God! don't, don't despise
me so utterly! Hate me--curse me--strike me--do anything, but don't
leave me as if I were some low thing, unfit for your touch,--I know I
am, but oh, Harry! . . ." She clung to him more closely. "If you leave
me I will not live,--I cannot! Have you no pity? Why would you throw me
back alone--all, all alone, to die of your contempt and my shame!"
And she bowed her head in an agony of tears.
He looked down upon her a moment in silence.
"Your shame!" he murmured. "My wife--"
Then he raised her in his arms and drew her with a strange hesitation of
touch, to his breast, as though she were some sick or wounded child, and
watched her as she lay there weeping, her face hidden, her whole frame
trembling in his embrace.
"Poor soul!" he whispered, more to himself than to her. "Poor frail
woman! Hush, hush, Clara! The past is past! I'll make you no more
reproaches. I--I _can't_ hurt you, because I once so loved you--but
now--now,--what _is_ there left for me to do, but to leave you? You'll
be happier so--you'll have perfect liberty--you needn't even think of
me--unless, perhaps, as one dead and buried long ago--"
She raised herself in his arms and looked at him piteously.
"Won't you give me a chance?" she sobbed. "Not one? If I had but known
you better--if I had understood oh, I've been vile, wicked,
deceitful--but I'm not happy, Harry--I've never been happy since I
wronged you! Won't you give me one little hope that I may win your love
again,--no, not your love, but your pity? Oh, Harry, have I lost
all--all--"
Her voice broke--she could say no more.
He stroked her hair gently. "You speak on impulse just now, Clara," he
said gravely yet tenderly. "You can't know your own strength or
weakness. God forbid that _I_ should judge you harshly! As you wish it,
I will not leave you yet. I'll wait. Whether we part or remain together,
shall be decided by your own actions, your own looks, your own words.
You understand, Clara? You know my feelings. I'm content for the present
to place my fate in your hands." He smiled rather sadly. "But for love,
Clara--I fear nothing can be done to warm to life this poor perished
love of ours. We can, perhaps, take hands and watch its corpse patiently
together and say how sorry we are it is dead--such penitence comes
always too late!"
He sighed, and put her gently away from him.
She turned up her flushed, tear-stained face to his.
"Will you kiss me, Harry?" she asked tremblingly. He met her eyes, and
an exclamation that was almost a groan broke from his lips. A shudder
passed through his frame.
"I can't, Clara! I can't--God forgive me!--Not yet!" And with that he
bowed his head and left her.
She listened to the echo of his firm footsteps dying away, and creeping
guiltily to a side-door she opened it, and watched yearningly his
retreating figure till it had disappeared.
"Why did I never love him till now?" she murmured sobbingly. "Now, when