The Man Between [64]
Dora would not leave him; it was impossible. He waited in a trance of aching suspense. Nothing for an hour or more broke it--no footfall, no sound of command or complaint. He was finally in hopes that Dora slept. Then he was called to lunch, and he made a pretense of eating it alone. Dora sent no excuse for her absence, and he could not trust himself to make inquiry about her. In the middle of the afternoon he heard a carriage drive to the door, and Dora, with her jewel- case in her hand, entered it and was driven away. The sight astounded him. He ran to her room, and found her maid packing her clothing. The woman answered his questions sullenly. She said "Mrs. Stanhope had gone to Mrs. Denning's, and had left orders for her trunks to be sent there." Beyond this she was silent and ignorant. No sympathy for either husband or wife was in her heart. Their quarrel was interfering with her own plans; she hated both of them in consequence.
In the meantime Dora had reached her home. Her mother was dismayed and hesitating, and her attitude raised again in Dora's heart the passion which had provoked the step she had taken. She wept like a lost child. She exclaimed against the horror of being Basil's wife forever and ever. She reproached her mother for suffering her to marry while she was only a child. She said she had been cruelly used in order to get the family into social recognition. She was in a frenzy of grief at her supposed sacrifice when her father came home. Her case was then won. With her arms round his neck, sobbing against his heart, her tears and entreaties on his lips, Ben Denning had no feeling and no care for anyone but his daughter. He took her view of things at once. "She HAD been badly used. It WAS a shame to tie a girl like Dora to sermons and such like. It was like shutting her up in a convent." Dora's tears and complaints fired him beyond reason. He promised her freedom whatever it cost him.
And while he sat in his private room considering the case, all the racial passions of his rough ancestry burning within him, Basil Stanhope called to see him. He permitted him to come into his presence, but he rose as he entered, and walked hastily a few steps to meet him.
"What do you want here, sir?" he asked.
"My wife."
"My daughter. You shall not see her. I have taken her back to my own care."
"She is my wife. No one can take her from me."
"I will teach you a different lesson."
"The law of God."
"The law of the land goes here. You'll find it more than you can defy."
"Sir, I entreat you to let me speak to Dora."
"I will not."
"I will stay here until I see her."
"I will give you five minutes. I do not wish to offer your profession an insult; if you have any respect for it you will obey me."
Answer me one question--what have I done wrong?"
"A man can be so intolerably right, that he becomes unbearably wrong. You have no business with a wife and a home. You are a d---- sight too good for a good little girl that wants a bit of innocent amusement. Sermons and Christmas trees! Great Scott, what sensible woman would not be sick of it all? Sir, I don't want another minute of your company. Little wonder that my Dora is ill with it. Oblige me by leaving my house as quietly as possible." And he walked to the door, flung it open, and stood glaring at the distracted husband. "Go," he said. "Go at once. My lawyer will see you in the future. I have nothing further to say to you."
Basil went, but not to his desolate home. He had a private key to the vestry in his church, and in its darkness and solitude he faced the first shock of his ruined life, for he knew well all was over. All had been. He sank to the floor at the foot of the large cross which hung on its bare white walls. Grief's illimitable wave went over him, and like a drowning man he uttered an inarticulate cry of agony --the cry of a soul that had wronged its destiny. Love had betrayed him to ruin. All he had done must be abandoned. All he had won must be given up. Sin and shame indeed it would be if in his person a sacrament
In the meantime Dora had reached her home. Her mother was dismayed and hesitating, and her attitude raised again in Dora's heart the passion which had provoked the step she had taken. She wept like a lost child. She exclaimed against the horror of being Basil's wife forever and ever. She reproached her mother for suffering her to marry while she was only a child. She said she had been cruelly used in order to get the family into social recognition. She was in a frenzy of grief at her supposed sacrifice when her father came home. Her case was then won. With her arms round his neck, sobbing against his heart, her tears and entreaties on his lips, Ben Denning had no feeling and no care for anyone but his daughter. He took her view of things at once. "She HAD been badly used. It WAS a shame to tie a girl like Dora to sermons and such like. It was like shutting her up in a convent." Dora's tears and complaints fired him beyond reason. He promised her freedom whatever it cost him.
And while he sat in his private room considering the case, all the racial passions of his rough ancestry burning within him, Basil Stanhope called to see him. He permitted him to come into his presence, but he rose as he entered, and walked hastily a few steps to meet him.
"What do you want here, sir?" he asked.
"My wife."
"My daughter. You shall not see her. I have taken her back to my own care."
"She is my wife. No one can take her from me."
"I will teach you a different lesson."
"The law of God."
"The law of the land goes here. You'll find it more than you can defy."
"Sir, I entreat you to let me speak to Dora."
"I will not."
"I will stay here until I see her."
"I will give you five minutes. I do not wish to offer your profession an insult; if you have any respect for it you will obey me."
Answer me one question--what have I done wrong?"
"A man can be so intolerably right, that he becomes unbearably wrong. You have no business with a wife and a home. You are a d---- sight too good for a good little girl that wants a bit of innocent amusement. Sermons and Christmas trees! Great Scott, what sensible woman would not be sick of it all? Sir, I don't want another minute of your company. Little wonder that my Dora is ill with it. Oblige me by leaving my house as quietly as possible." And he walked to the door, flung it open, and stood glaring at the distracted husband. "Go," he said. "Go at once. My lawyer will see you in the future. I have nothing further to say to you."
Basil went, but not to his desolate home. He had a private key to the vestry in his church, and in its darkness and solitude he faced the first shock of his ruined life, for he knew well all was over. All had been. He sank to the floor at the foot of the large cross which hung on its bare white walls. Grief's illimitable wave went over him, and like a drowning man he uttered an inarticulate cry of agony --the cry of a soul that had wronged its destiny. Love had betrayed him to ruin. All he had done must be abandoned. All he had won must be given up. Sin and shame indeed it would be if in his person a sacrament