“Because he was afraid the world would say that I had done so. Poor shallow creature! But he shall be punished.”
“I do not know how you can punish him.”
“Leave that to me. I have another thing to do much more difficult.” She paused, looking for a moment up into his face, and then turning her eyes upon the ground. As he said nothing, she went on. “I have to excuse myself to you for having accepted him.”
“I have never blamed you.”
“Not in words. How should you? But if you have not blamed me in your heart, I despise you. I know you have. I have seen it in your eyes when you have counselled me, either to take the poor creature or to leave him. Speak out, now, like a man. Is it not so?”
“I never thought you loved him.”
“Loved him! Is there anything in him or about him that a woman could love? Is he not a poor social stick;—a bit of half-dead wood, good to make a post of, if one wants a post? I did want a post so sorely then!”
“I don’t see why.”
“You don’t?”
“No, indeed. It was natural that you should be inclined to marry again.”
“Natural that I should be inclined to marry again! And is that all? It is hard sometimes to see whether men are thick-witted, or hypocrites so perfect that they seem to be so. I cannot bring myself to think you thick-witted, Frank.”
“Then I must be the perfect hypocrite—of course.”
“You believed I accepted Lord Fawn because it was natural that I should wish to marry again! Frank, you believed nothing of the kind. I accepted him in my anger, in my misery, in my despair, because I had expected you to come to me—and you had not come!” She had thrown herself now into a chair, and sat looking at him. “You had told me that you would come, and you had stayed away. It was you, Frank, that I wanted to punish then;—but there was no punishment in it for you. When is it to be, Frank?”
“When is what to be?” he asked, in a low voice, all but dumbfounded. How was he to put an end to this conversation, and what was he to say to her?
“Your marriage with that little wizened thing who gave you the ring—that prim morsel of feminine propriety who has been clever enough to make you believe that her morality would suffice to make you happy.”
“I will not hear Lucy Morris abused, Lizzie.”
“Is that abuse? Is it abuse to say that she is moral and proper? But, sir, I shall abuse her. I know her for what she is, while your eyes are sealed. She is wise and moral, and decorous and prim; but she is a hypocrite, and has no touch of real heart in her composition. Not abuse her when she has robbed me of all—all—all that I have in the world! Go to her. You had better go at once. I did not mean to say all this, but it has been said, and you must leave me. I, at any rate, cannot play the hypocrite;—I wish I could.” He rose and came to her, and attempted to take her hand, but she flung away from him. “No!” she said—“never again; never, unless you will tell me that the promise you made me when we were down on the seashore was a true promise. Was that truth, sir, or was it a—lie?”
“Lizzie, do not use such a word as that to me.”
“I cannot stand picking my words when the whole world is going round with me, and my very brain is on fire. What is it to me what my words are? Say one syllable to me, and every word I utter again while breath is mine shall be spoken to do you pleasure. If you cannot say it, it is nothing to me what you or anyone may think of my words. You know my secret, and I care not who else knows it. At any rate, I can die!” Then she paused a moment, and after that stalked steadily out of the room.
That afternoon Frank took a long walk by himself over the mountains, nearly to the Cottage and back again; and on his return was informed that Lady Eustace was ill, and had gone to bed. At any rate, she was too unwell to come down to dinner. He, therefore, and Miss Macnulty sat down to dine, and passed the evening together without other companionship. Frank had resolved during his walk that he would leave Portray the next day; but had hardly resolved upon anything else. One thing, however, seemed certain to him. He was engaged to marry Lucy Morris, and to that engagement he must be true. His cousin was very charming—and had never looked so lovely in his eyes as when she had been confessing her love for him. And he had wondered at and admired her courage, her power of language, and her force. He could not quite forget how useful would be her income to him. And, added to this, there was present to him an unwholesome feeling—ideas absolutely at variance with those better ideas which had prompted him when he was writing his offer to Lucy Morris in his chambers—that a woman such as was his cousin Lizzie was fitter to be the wife of a man thrown, as he must be, into the world, than a dear, quiet, domestic little girl such as Lucy Morris. But to Lucy Morris he was engaged, and therefore there was an end of it.
The next morning he sent his love to his cousin, asking whether he should see her before he went. It was still necessary that he should know what attorneys to employ on her behalf if the threatened bill were filed by Messrs. Camperdown. Then he suggested a firm in his note. Might he put the case into the hands of Mr. Townsend, who
