Sketches in Lavender, Blue and Green [4]
There was a quiet dignity about the man that was strange to her.
"Why have you followed me?" she asked.
"I want you to return home."
"Home!" she cried. "You must be mad. Do you not know--"
He interrupted her vehemently. "I know nothing. I wish to know nothing. Go back to London at once. I have made everything right; no one suspects. I shall not be there; you will never see me again, and you will have an opportunity of undoing your mistake-- our mistake."
She listened. Hers was not a great nature, and the desire to obtain happiness without paying the price was strong upon her. As for his good name, what could that matter? he urged. People would only say that he had gone back to the evil from which he had emerged, and few would be surprised. His life would go on much as it had done, and she would only be pitied.
She quite understood his plan; it seemed mean of her to accept his proposal, and she argued feebly against it. But he overcame all her objections. For his own sake, he told her, he would prefer the scandal to be connected with his name rather than with that of his wife. As he unfolded his scheme, she began to feel that in acquiescing she was conferring a favour. It was not the first deception he had arranged for the public, and he appeared to be half in love with his own cleverness. She even found herself laughing at his mimicry of what this acquaintance and that would say. Her spirits rose; the play that might have been a painful drama seemed turning out an amusing farce.
The thing settled, he rose to go, and held out his hand. As she looked up into his face, something about the line of his lips smote upon her.
"You will be well rid of me," she said. "I have brought you nothing but trouble."
"Oh, trouble," he answered. "If that were all! A man can bear trouble."
"What else?" she asked.
His eyes travelled aimlessly about the room. "They taught me a lot of things when I was a boy," he said, "my mother and others--they meant well--which as I grew older I discovered to be lies; and so I came to think that nothing good was true, and that everything and everybody was evil. And then--"
His wandering eyes came round to her and he broke off abruptly. "Good-bye," he said, and the next moment he was gone.
She sat wondering for a while what he had meant. Then Sennett returned, and the words went out of her head.
A good deal of sympathy was felt for Mrs. Blake. The man had a charming wife; he might have kept straight; but as his friends added, "Blake always was a cad."
AN ITEM OF FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE
Speaking personally, I do not like the Countess of --. She is not the type of woman I could love. I hesitate the less giving expression to this sentiment by reason of the conviction that the Countess of -- would not be unduly depressed even were the fact to reach her ears. I cannot conceive the Countess of --'s being troubled by the opinion concerning her of any being, human or divine, other than the Countess of --.
But to be honest, I must admit that for the Earl of -- she makes an ideal wife. She rules him as she rules all others, relations and retainers, from the curate to the dowager, but the rod, though firmly held, is wielded with justice and kindly intent. Nor is it possible to imagine the Earl of --'s living as contentedly as he does with any partner of a less dominating turn of mind. He is one of those weak-headed, strong-limbed, good-natured, childish men, born to be guided in all matters, from the tying of a neck-cloth to the choice of a political party, by their women folk. Such men are in clover when their proprietor happens to be a good and sensible woman, but are to be pitied when they get into the hands of the selfish or the foolish. As very young men, they too often fall victims to bad-tempered chorus girls or to middle-aged matrons of the class from which Pope judged all womankind. They make capital husbands when well managed; treated badly, they say little, but set to work, after the manner of a dissatisfied cat,
"Why have you followed me?" she asked.
"I want you to return home."
"Home!" she cried. "You must be mad. Do you not know--"
He interrupted her vehemently. "I know nothing. I wish to know nothing. Go back to London at once. I have made everything right; no one suspects. I shall not be there; you will never see me again, and you will have an opportunity of undoing your mistake-- our mistake."
She listened. Hers was not a great nature, and the desire to obtain happiness without paying the price was strong upon her. As for his good name, what could that matter? he urged. People would only say that he had gone back to the evil from which he had emerged, and few would be surprised. His life would go on much as it had done, and she would only be pitied.
She quite understood his plan; it seemed mean of her to accept his proposal, and she argued feebly against it. But he overcame all her objections. For his own sake, he told her, he would prefer the scandal to be connected with his name rather than with that of his wife. As he unfolded his scheme, she began to feel that in acquiescing she was conferring a favour. It was not the first deception he had arranged for the public, and he appeared to be half in love with his own cleverness. She even found herself laughing at his mimicry of what this acquaintance and that would say. Her spirits rose; the play that might have been a painful drama seemed turning out an amusing farce.
The thing settled, he rose to go, and held out his hand. As she looked up into his face, something about the line of his lips smote upon her.
"You will be well rid of me," she said. "I have brought you nothing but trouble."
"Oh, trouble," he answered. "If that were all! A man can bear trouble."
"What else?" she asked.
His eyes travelled aimlessly about the room. "They taught me a lot of things when I was a boy," he said, "my mother and others--they meant well--which as I grew older I discovered to be lies; and so I came to think that nothing good was true, and that everything and everybody was evil. And then--"
His wandering eyes came round to her and he broke off abruptly. "Good-bye," he said, and the next moment he was gone.
She sat wondering for a while what he had meant. Then Sennett returned, and the words went out of her head.
A good deal of sympathy was felt for Mrs. Blake. The man had a charming wife; he might have kept straight; but as his friends added, "Blake always was a cad."
AN ITEM OF FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE
Speaking personally, I do not like the Countess of --. She is not the type of woman I could love. I hesitate the less giving expression to this sentiment by reason of the conviction that the Countess of -- would not be unduly depressed even were the fact to reach her ears. I cannot conceive the Countess of --'s being troubled by the opinion concerning her of any being, human or divine, other than the Countess of --.
But to be honest, I must admit that for the Earl of -- she makes an ideal wife. She rules him as she rules all others, relations and retainers, from the curate to the dowager, but the rod, though firmly held, is wielded with justice and kindly intent. Nor is it possible to imagine the Earl of --'s living as contentedly as he does with any partner of a less dominating turn of mind. He is one of those weak-headed, strong-limbed, good-natured, childish men, born to be guided in all matters, from the tying of a neck-cloth to the choice of a political party, by their women folk. Such men are in clover when their proprietor happens to be a good and sensible woman, but are to be pitied when they get into the hands of the selfish or the foolish. As very young men, they too often fall victims to bad-tempered chorus girls or to middle-aged matrons of the class from which Pope judged all womankind. They make capital husbands when well managed; treated badly, they say little, but set to work, after the manner of a dissatisfied cat,