LITTLE NOVELS [109]
I was thinking of the play we saw together at Rome? Is the story as present to your mind now, as it was then?"
"Quite as present."
"You asked if I was performing the part of the Marquis--and if you were the Count. Rothsay! the devotion of that ideal character to his friend has been my devotion; his conviction that his death would justify what he had done for his friend's sake, has been _my_ conviction; and as it ended with him, so it has ended with me--his terrible position is _my_ terrible position toward you, at this moment."
"Are you mad?" Rothsay asked, sternly.
I passed over that first outbreak of his anger in silence.
"Do you mean to tell me you have married Susan?" he went on.
"Bear this in mind," I said. "When I married her, I was doomed to death. Nay, more. In your interests--as God is my witness--I welcomed death."
He stepped up to me, in silence, and raised his hand with a threatening gesture.
That action at once deprived me of my self-possession. I spoke with the ungovernable rashness of a boy.
"Carry out your intention," I said. "Insult me."
His hand dropped.
"Insult me," I repeated; "it is one way out of the unendurable situation in which we are placed. You may trust me to challenge you. Duels are still fought on the Continent; I will follow you abroad; I will choose pistols; I will take care that we fight on the fatal foreign system; and I will purposely miss you. Make her what I intended her to be--my rich widow."
He looked at me attentively.
"Is _that_ your refuge?" he asked, scornfully. "No! I won't help you to commit suicide."
God forgive me! I was possessed by a spirit of reckless despair; I did my best to provoke him.
"Reconsider your decision," I said; "and remember--you tried to commit suicide yourself."
He turned quickly to the door, as if he distrusted his own powers of self-control.
"I wish to speak to Susan," he said, keeping his back turned on me.
"You will find her in the library."
He left me.
I went to the window. I opened it and let the cold wintry air blow over my burning head. I don't know how long I sat at the window. There came a time when I saw Rothsay on the house steps. He walked rapidly toward the park gate. His head was down; he never once looked back at the room in which he had left me.
As he passed out of my sight, I felt a hand laid gently on my shoulder. Susan had returned to me.
"He will not come back," she said. "Try still to remember him as your old friend. He asks you to forgive and forget."
She had made the peace between us. I was deeply touched; my eyes filled with tears as I looked at her. She kissed me on the forehead and went out. I afterward asked what had passed between them when Rothsay spoke with her in the library. She never has told me what they said to each other; and she never will. She is right.
Later in the day I was told that Mrs. Rymer had called, and wished to "pay her respects."
I refused to see her. Whatever claim she might have otherwise had on my consideration had been forfeited by the infamy of her conduct, when she intercepted my letter to Susan. Her sense of injury on receiving my message was expressed in writing, and was sent to me the same evening. The last sentence in her letter was characteristic of the woman.
"However your pride may despise me," she wrote, "I am indebted to you for the rise in life that I have always desired. You may refuse to see me--but you can't prevent my being the mother-in-law of a gentleman."
Soon afterward, I received a visit which I had hardly ventured to expect. Busy as he was in London, my doctor came to see me. He was not in his usual good spirits.
"I hope you don't bring me any bad news?" I said.
"You shall judge for yourself," he replied. "I come from Mr. Rothsay, to say for him what he is not able to say for himself."
"Where is he?"
"He has left England."
"For any purpose that you know of?"
"Yes. He has sailed to join the expedition of rescue--I ought rather to call it the forlorn hope--which is to search for
"Quite as present."
"You asked if I was performing the part of the Marquis--and if you were the Count. Rothsay! the devotion of that ideal character to his friend has been my devotion; his conviction that his death would justify what he had done for his friend's sake, has been _my_ conviction; and as it ended with him, so it has ended with me--his terrible position is _my_ terrible position toward you, at this moment."
"Are you mad?" Rothsay asked, sternly.
I passed over that first outbreak of his anger in silence.
"Do you mean to tell me you have married Susan?" he went on.
"Bear this in mind," I said. "When I married her, I was doomed to death. Nay, more. In your interests--as God is my witness--I welcomed death."
He stepped up to me, in silence, and raised his hand with a threatening gesture.
That action at once deprived me of my self-possession. I spoke with the ungovernable rashness of a boy.
"Carry out your intention," I said. "Insult me."
His hand dropped.
"Insult me," I repeated; "it is one way out of the unendurable situation in which we are placed. You may trust me to challenge you. Duels are still fought on the Continent; I will follow you abroad; I will choose pistols; I will take care that we fight on the fatal foreign system; and I will purposely miss you. Make her what I intended her to be--my rich widow."
He looked at me attentively.
"Is _that_ your refuge?" he asked, scornfully. "No! I won't help you to commit suicide."
God forgive me! I was possessed by a spirit of reckless despair; I did my best to provoke him.
"Reconsider your decision," I said; "and remember--you tried to commit suicide yourself."
He turned quickly to the door, as if he distrusted his own powers of self-control.
"I wish to speak to Susan," he said, keeping his back turned on me.
"You will find her in the library."
He left me.
I went to the window. I opened it and let the cold wintry air blow over my burning head. I don't know how long I sat at the window. There came a time when I saw Rothsay on the house steps. He walked rapidly toward the park gate. His head was down; he never once looked back at the room in which he had left me.
As he passed out of my sight, I felt a hand laid gently on my shoulder. Susan had returned to me.
"He will not come back," she said. "Try still to remember him as your old friend. He asks you to forgive and forget."
She had made the peace between us. I was deeply touched; my eyes filled with tears as I looked at her. She kissed me on the forehead and went out. I afterward asked what had passed between them when Rothsay spoke with her in the library. She never has told me what they said to each other; and she never will. She is right.
Later in the day I was told that Mrs. Rymer had called, and wished to "pay her respects."
I refused to see her. Whatever claim she might have otherwise had on my consideration had been forfeited by the infamy of her conduct, when she intercepted my letter to Susan. Her sense of injury on receiving my message was expressed in writing, and was sent to me the same evening. The last sentence in her letter was characteristic of the woman.
"However your pride may despise me," she wrote, "I am indebted to you for the rise in life that I have always desired. You may refuse to see me--but you can't prevent my being the mother-in-law of a gentleman."
Soon afterward, I received a visit which I had hardly ventured to expect. Busy as he was in London, my doctor came to see me. He was not in his usual good spirits.
"I hope you don't bring me any bad news?" I said.
"You shall judge for yourself," he replied. "I come from Mr. Rothsay, to say for him what he is not able to say for himself."
"Where is he?"
"He has left England."
"For any purpose that you know of?"
"Yes. He has sailed to join the expedition of rescue--I ought rather to call it the forlorn hope--which is to search for