She rose abruptly from the sofa—kissed him on the forehead—and said wildly, 'I shall be better in bed!' Before he could move or speak, she had left him.
X.
THE next morning he knocked at the door of his wife's room and asked how she had passed the night.
'I have slept badly,' she answered, 'and I must beg you to excuse my absence at breakfast-time.' She called him back as he was about to withdraw. 'Remember,' she said, 'when you return from the gallery to-day, I expect that you will not return alone.'
Three hours later he was at home again. The young lady's services as a copyist were at his disposal; she had returned with him to look at the drawings.
The sitting-room was empty when they entered it. He rang for his wife's maid—and was informed that Mrs. Lismore had gone out. Refusing to believe the woman, he went to his wife's apartments. She was not to be found.
When he returned to the sitting-room, the young lady was not unnaturally offended. He could make allowances for her being a little out of temper at the slight that had been put on her; but he was inexpressibly disconcerted by the manner—almost the coarse manner—in which she expressed herself.
'I have been talking to your wife's maid, while you have been away,' she said. 'I find you have married an old lady for her money. She is jealous of me, of course?'
'Let me beg you to alter your opinion,' he answered. 'You are wronging my wife; she is incapable of any such feeling as you attribute to her.'
The young lady laughed. 'At any rate you are a good husband,' she said satirically. 'Suppose you own the truth? Wouldn't you like her better if she was young and pretty like me?'
He was not merely surprised—he was disgusted. Her beauty had so completely fascinated him, when he first saw her, that the idea of associating any want of refinement and good breeding with such a charming creature never entered his mind. The disenchantment to him was already so complete that he was even disagreeably affected by the tone of her voice: it was almost as repellent to him as the exhibition of unrestrained bad temper which she seemed perfectly careless to conceal.
'I confess you surprise me,' he said, coldly.
The reply produced no effect on her. On the contrary, she became more insolent than ever.
'I have a fertile fancy,' she went on, 'and your absurd way of taking a joke only encourages me! Suppose you could transform this sour old wife of yours, who has insulted me, into the sweetest young creature that ever lived, by only holding up your finger—wouldn't you do it?'
This passed the limits of his endurance. 'I have no wish,' he said, 'to forget the consideration which is due to a woman. You leave me but one alternative.' He rose to go out of the room.
She ran to the door as he spoke, and placed herself in the way of his going out.
He signed to her to let him pass.
She suddenly threw her arms round his neck, kissed him passionately, and whispered, with her lips at his ear: 'Oh, Ernest, forgive me! Could I have asked you to marry me for my money if I had not taken refuge in a disguise?'
XI.
WHEN he had sufficiently recovered to think, he put her back from him. 'Is there an end of the deception now?' he asked, sternly. 'Am I to trust you in your new character?'
'You are not to be harder on me than I deserve,' she answered, gently. 'Did you ever hear of an actress named Miss Max?'
He began to understand her. 'Forgive me if I spoke harshly,' he said. 'You have put me to a severe trial.'
She burst into tears. 'Love,' she murmured, 'is my only excuse.'
From that moment she had won her pardon. He took her hand, and made her sit by him.
'Yes,' he said, 'I have heard of Miss Max and of her wonderful powers of personation—and I have always regretted not having seen her while she was on the stage.'
'Did you hear anything more of her, Ernest?'
'Yes, I heard that she was a pattern of modesty and good conduct, and that she gave up her profession, at the height of her success, to marry an old man.'
'Will you come with me to my room?' she asked. 'I have something there which I wish to show you.'
It was the copy of her husband's will.
'Read the lines, Ernest, which begin at the top of the page. Let my dead husband speak for me.'
The lines ran thus:
'My motive in marrying Miss Max must be stated in this place, in justice to her—and, I will venture to add, in justice to myself. I felt the sincerest sympathy for her position. She was without father, mother, or friends; one of the poor forsaken children, whom the mercy of the Foundling Hospital provides with a home. Her after life on the stage was the life of a virtuous woman: persecuted by profligates; insulted by some of the baser creatures associated with her, to whom she was an object of envy. I offered her a home, and the protection of a father—on the only terms which the world would recognize as worthy of us. My experience of her since our marriage has been the experience of unvarying goodness, sweetness, and sound sense. She has behaved so nobly, in a trying position, that I wish her (even in this life) to have her reward. I entreat her to make a second choice in marriage, which shall not be a mere form. I firmly believe that she will choose well and wisely—that she will make the happiness of a man who is worthy of her—and that, as wife and mother, she will set an example of inestimable value in the social sphere that she occupies. In proof of the heartfelt sincerity with which I pay my tribute to her virtues, I add to this my will the clause that follows.'
With the clause that followed, Ernest was already acquainted.
