“It seems to me to make a difference,” said he.
“I never see anybody now—neither your people, nor the Wharton Whartons. Indeed, I see nobody. If it were not for papa I should be glad to go. I am told that it is a charming country. I have not found Manchester Square very charming. I am inclined to think that all the world is very much alike, and that it does not matter very much where one lives—or, perhaps, what one does. But at any rate I am going, and I am very glad to be able to say goodbye to you before I start.” All this she said rapidly, in a manner unlike herself. She was forcing herself to speak so that she might save herself, if possible, from breaking down in his presence.
“Of course I came when Mary told me.”
“Yes;—she was here. Sir Alured did not come. I don’t wonder at that, however. And your mother was in town some time ago—but I didn’t expect her to come. Why should they come? I don’t know whether you might not have better stayed away. Of course I am a Pariah now; but Pariah as I am, I shall be as good as anyone else in Guatemala. You have seen Everett since he has been in town, perhaps?”
“Yes;—I have seen him.”
“I hope they won’t quarrel with Everett because of what I have done. I have felt that more than all—that both papa and he have suffered because of it. Do you know, I think people are hard. They might have thrown me off without being unkind to them. It is that that has killed me, Arthur;—that they should have suffered.” He sat looking at her, not knowing how to interrupt her, or what to say. There was much that he meant to say, but he did not know how to begin it, or how to frame his words. “When I am gone, perhaps, it will be all right,” she continued. “When he told me that I was to go, that was my comfort. I think I have taught myself to think nothing of myself, to bear it all as a necessity, to put up with it, whatever it may be, as men bear thirst in the desert. Thank God, Arthur, I have no baby to suffer with me. Here—here, it is still very bad. When I think of papa creeping in and out of his house, I sometimes feel that I must kill myself. But our going will put an end to all that. It is much better that we should go. I wish we might start tomorrow.” Then she looked up at him, and saw that the tears were running down his face, and as she looked she heard his sobs. “Why should you cry, Arthur? He never cries—nor do I. When baby died I cried—but very little. Tears are vain, foolish things. It has to be borne, and there is an end of it. When one makes up one’s mind to that, one does not cry. There was a poor woman here the other day whose husband he had ruined. She wept and bewailed herself till I pitied her almost more than myself;—but then she had children.”
“Oh, Emily!”
“You mustn’t call me by my name, because he would be angry. I have to do, you know, as he tells me. And I do so strive to do it! Through it all I have an idea that if I do my duty it will be better for me. There are things, you know, which a husband may tell you to do, but you cannot do. If he tells me to rob, I am not to rob;—am I? And now I think of it, you ought not to be here. He would be very much displeased. But it has been so pleasant once more to see an old friend.”
“I care nothing for his anger,” said Arthur moodily.
“Ah, but I do. I have to care for it.”
“Leave him! Why don’t you leave him?”
“What!”
“You cannot deceive me. You do not try to deceive me. You know that he is altogether unworthy of you.”
“I will hear nothing of the kind, sir.”
“How can I speak otherwise when you yourself tell me of your own misery? Is it possible that I should not know what he is? Would you have me pretend to think well of him?”
“You can hold your tongue, Arthur.”
“No;—I cannot hold my tongue. Have I not held my tongue ever since you married? And if I am to speak at all, must I not speak now?”
“There is nothing to be said that can serve us at all.”
“Then it shall be said without serving. When I bid you leave him, it is not that you may come to me. Though I love you better than all the world put together, I do not mean that.”
“Oh, Arthur, Arthur!”
“But let your father save you. Only tell him that you will stay with him, and he will do it. Though I should never see you again, I could hope to protect you. Of course, I know—and you know. He is—a scoundrel!”
“I will not hear it,” said she, rising from her seat on the sofa with her hands up to her forehead, but still coming nearer to him as she moved.
“Does not your father say the same thing? I will advise nothing that he does not advise. I would not say a word to you that he might not hear. I do love you. I have always loved you. But do you think that I would hurt you with my love?”
“No;—no;—no!”
“No, indeed;—but I would have you feel that those who loved you of old are still anxious for your welfare. You said just now that you had been neglected.”
“I spoke of papa and Everett. For myself—of course I have separated myself from everybody.”
“Never from
