“He said it in words which made me feel that I must part from him.”
“And how did you answer him?”
“I would not answer him at all. If he had come to me like a man—not accusing me, but asking me—I would have told him everything. And what was there to tell? I should have broken my faith to you, in speaking of that scene at Loughlinter, but women always tell such stories to their husbands when their husbands are good to them, and true, and just. And it is well that they should be told. But to Mr. Kennedy I can tell nothing. He does not believe my word.”
“Not believe you, Lady Laura?”
“No! Because I did not blurt out to him all that story about your foolish duel—because I thought it best to keep my brother’s secret, as long as there was a secret to be kept, he told me that I had—lied to him!”
“What!—with that word?”
“Yes—with that very word. He is not particular about his words, when he thinks it necessary to express himself strongly. And he has told me since that because of that he could never believe me again. How is it possible that a woman should live with such a man?” But why did she come to him with this story—to him whom she had been accused of entertaining as a lover;—to him who of all her friends was the last whom she should have chosen as the recipient for such a tale? Phineas as he thought how he might best answer her, with what words he might try to comfort her, could not but ask himself this question. “The moment that the word was out of his mouth,” she went on to say, “I resolved that I would tell you. The accusation is against you as it is against me, and is equally false to both. I have written to him, and there is my letter.”
“But you will see him again?”
“No;—I will go to my father’s house. I have already arranged it. Mr. Kennedy has my letter by this time, and I go from hence home with my father.”
“Do you wish that I should read the letter?”
“Yes—certainly. I wish that you should read it. Should I ever meet him again, I shall tell him that you saw it.”
They were now standing close upon the river’s bank, at a corner of the grounds, and, though the voices of people sounded near to them, they were alone. Phineas had no alternative but to read the letter, which was as follows:—
After what you have said to me it is impossible that I should return to your house. I shall meet my father at the Duke of Omnium’s, and have already asked him to give me an asylum. It is my wish to remain wherever he may be, either in town or in the country. Should I change my purpose in this, and change my residence, I will not fail to let you know where I go and what I propose to do. You I think must have forgotten that I was your wife; but I will never forget it.
You have accused me of having a lover. You cannot have expected that I should continue to live with you after such an accusation. For myself I cannot understand how any man can have brought himself to bring such a charge against his wife. Even had it been true the accusation should not have been made by your mouth to my ears.
That it is untrue I believe you must be as well aware as I am myself. How intimate I was with Mr. Finn, and what were the limits of my intimacy with him you knew before I married you. After our marriage I encouraged his friendship till I found that there was something in it that displeased you—and, after learning that, I discouraged it. You have said that he is my lover, but you have probably not defined for yourself that word very clearly. You have felt yourself slighted because his name has been mentioned with praise;—and your jealousy has been wounded because you have thought that I have regarded him as in some way superior to yourself. You have never really thought that he was my lover—that he spoke words to me which others might not hear, that he claimed from me aught that a wife may not give, that he received aught which a friend should not receive. The accusation has been a coward’s accusation.
I shall be at my father’s tonight, and tomorrow I will get you to let my servant bring to me such things as are my own—my clothes, namely, and desk, and a few books. She will know what I want. I trust you may be happier without a wife, than ever you have been with me. I have felt almost daily since we were married that you were a man who would have been happier without a wife than with one.
“It is at any rate true,” she said, when Phineas had read the letter.
“True! Doubtless it is true,” said Phineas, “except that I do not suppose he was ever really angry with me, or jealous, or anything of the sort—because I got on well. It seems absurd even to think it.”
“There is nothing too absurd for some men. I remember your telling me that he was weak, and poor, and unworthy. I remember your saying so when I first thought that he might become my husband. I wish I had believed you when you told me so. I should not have made such a shipwreck of myself as I have done. That is all I had to say to you. After what has passed between us I did not choose that you should hear how I was separated from my husband from any lips but my own. I will go now and find papa. Do not come with me. I prefer being
