“I dare say there was a kiss, my dear.”
“Of course there was;—and he held me in his arms, and comforted me, and told me how to behave;—just as you would do a little girl. It’s all over now, of course; and if there be a mistake, it is his fault. I feel that all responsibility is gone from myself, and that for all the rest of my life I have to do just what he tells me.”
“And what says the divine Wallachia?”
“Poor Wally! She says nothing, but she thinks that I am a castaway and a recreant. I am a recreant, I know;—but yet I think that I was right. I know I could not help myself.”
“Of course you were right, my dear,” said the sage Nora. “If you had the notion in your head, it was wise to get rid of it; but I knew how it would be when you spoke to him.”
“You were not so weak when he came to you.”
“That was altogether another thing. It was not arranged in heaven that I was to become his captive.”
After that Wallachia Petrie never again tried her influence on her former friend, but admitted to herself that the evil was done, and that it could not be remedied. According to her theory of life, Caroline Spalding had been wrong, and weak—had shown herself to be comfort-loving and luxuriously-minded, had looked to get her happiness from soft effeminate pleasures rather than from rational work and the useful, independent exercise of her own intelligence. In the privacy of her little chamber Wallachia Petrie shed—not absolute tears—but many tearful thoughts over her friend. It was to her a thing very terrible that the chosen one of her heart should prefer the career of an English lord’s wife to that of an American citizeness, with all manner of capability for female voting, female speechmaking, female poetising, and, perhaps, female political action before her. It was a thousand pities! “You may take a horse to water,”—said Wallachia to herself, thinking of the ever-freshly springing fountain of her own mind, at which Caroline Spalding would always have been made welcome freely to quench her thirst—“but you cannot make him drink if he be not athirst.” In the future she would have no friend. Never again would she subject herself to the disgrace of such a failure. But the sacrifice was to be made, and she knew that it was bootless to waste her words further on Caroline Spalding. She left Florence before the wedding, and returned alone to the land of liberty. She wrote a letter to Caroline explaining her conduct, and Caroline Spalding showed the letter to her husband—as one that was both loving and eloquent.
“Very loving and very eloquent,” he said. “But, nevertheless, one does think of sour grapes.”
“There I am sure you wrong her,” said Caroline.
LXXXII
Mrs. French’s Carving Knife
During these days there were terrible doings at Exeter. Camilla had sworn that if Mr. Gibson did not come to, there should be a tragedy, and it appeared that she was inclined to keep her word. Immediately after the receipt of her letter from Mr. Gibson she had had an interview with that gentleman in his lodgings, and had asked him his intentions. He had taken measures to fortify himself against such an attack; but, whatever those measures were, Camilla had broken through them. She had stood before him as he sat in his armchair, and he had been dumb in her presence. It had perhaps been well for him that the eloquence of her indignation had been so great that she had hardly been able to pause a moment for a reply. “Will you take your letter back again?” she had said. “I should be wrong to do that,” he had lisped out in reply, “because it is true. As a Christian minister I could not stand with you at the altar with a lie in my mouth.” In no other way did he attempt to excuse himself—but that, twice repeated, filled up all the pause which she made for him.
There never had been such a case before—so impudent, so cruel, so gross, so uncalled for, so unmanly, so unnecessary, so unjustifiable, so damnable—so sure of eternal condemnation! All this she said to him with loud voice, and clenched fist, and starting eyes—regardless utterly of any listeners on the stairs, or of outside passers in the street. In very truth she was moved to a sublimity of indignation. Her low nature became nearly poetic under the wrong inflicted upon her. She was almost tempted to tear him with her hands, and inflict upon him at the moment some terrible vengeance which should be told of forever in the annals of Exeter. A man so mean as he, so weak, so cowardly, one so little of a hero;—that he should dare to do it, and dare to sit there before her, and to say that he would do it! “Your gown shall be torn off your back, sir, and the very boys of Exeter shall drag you through the gutters!” To this threat he said nothing, but sat mute, hiding his face in his hands. “And now tell me this, sir;—is there anything between you and Bella?” But there was no voice in reply. “Answer my question, sir. I have a right to ask it.” Still he said not a word. “Listen to me. Sooner than that you and she should be man and wife, I would stab her! Yes, I would;—you poor, paltry, lying, cowardly creature!” She remained with him for more than half an hour, and then banged out of the room flashing back a look of scorn at him as she went. Martha, before that day was over, had learned the whole story from Mr. Gibson’s cook, and had told her mistress.
“I did not think he had so much spirit in him,” was Miss Stanbury’s answer. Throughout Exeter the great wonder arising from the
