Part 24 (1/2)
”I will have no such childish nonsense in my house.”
”I promised it, Dora.”
”You had no right to do so. This is my house. My father bought it and gave me it, and it is my own. I----”
”It seems, then, that I intrude in your house. Is it so? Speak, Dora.”
”If you will ask questions you must take the answer. You do intrude when you come with such ridiculous proposals--in fact, you intrude very often lately.”
”Does Mr. Mostyn intrude?”
”Mr. Mostyn takes me out, gives me a little sensible pleasure. You think I can be interested in a Christmas tree. The idea!”
”Alas, alas, Dora, you are tired of me! You do not love me! You do not love me!”
”I love n.o.body. I am sorry I got married. It was all a mistake. I will go home and then you can get a divorce.”
At this last word the whole man changed. He was suffused, transfigured with an anger that was at once righteous and impetuous.
”How dare you use that word to me?” he demanded. ”To the priest of G.o.d no such word exists. I do not know it. You are my wife, willing or unwilling. You are my wife forever, whether you dwell with me or not. You cannot sever bonds the Almighty has tied. You are mine, Dora Stanhope! Mine for time and eternity! Mine forever and ever!”
She looked at him in amazement, and saw a man after an image she had never imagined. She was terrified. She flung herself on the sofa in a whirlwind of pa.s.sion. She cried aloud against his claim. She gave herself up to a vehement rage that was strongly infused with a childish dismay and panic.
”I will not be your wife forever!” she shrieked. ”I will never be your wife again--never, not for one hour! Let me go! Take your hands off me!”
For Basil had knelt down by the distraught woman, and clasping her in his arms said, even on her lips, ”You ARE my dear wife! You are my very own dear wife! Tell me what to do. Anything that is right, reasonable I will do. We can never part.”
”I will go to my father. I will never come back to you.” And with these words she rose, threw off his embrace, and with a sobbing cry ran, like a terrified child, out of the room.
He sat down exhausted by his emotion, and sick with the thought she had evoked in that one evil word. The publicity, the disgrace, the wrong to Holy Church--ah, that was the cruelest wound! His own wrong was hard enough, but that he, who would gladly die for the Church, should put her to open shame! How could he bear it? Though it killed him, he must prevent that wrong; yes, if the right eye offended it must be plucked out. He must throw off his ca.s.sock, and turn away from the sacred aisles; he must--he could not say the word; he would wait a little. Dora would not leave him; it was impossible. He waited in a trance of aching suspense. Nothing for an hour or more broke it--no footfall, no sound of command or complaint. He was finally in hopes that Dora slept. Then he was called to lunch, and he made a pretense of eating it alone. Dora sent no excuse for her absence, and he could not trust himself to make inquiry about her. In the middle of the afternoon he heard a carriage drive to the door, and Dora, with her jewel-case in her hand, entered it and was driven away. The sight astounded him. He ran to her room, and found her maid packing her clothing. The woman answered his questions sullenly. She said ”Mrs. Stanhope had gone to Mrs. Denning's, and had left orders for her trunks to be sent there.” Beyond this she was silent and ignorant. No sympathy for either husband or wife was in her heart.
Their quarrel was interfering with her own plans; she hated both of them in consequence.
In the meantime Dora had reached her home. Her mother was dismayed and hesitating, and her att.i.tude raised again in Dora's heart the pa.s.sion which had provoked the step she had taken. She wept like a lost child.
She exclaimed against the horror of being Basil's wife forever and ever.
She reproached her mother for suffering her to marry while she was only a child. She said she had been cruelly used in order to get the family into social recognition. She was in a frenzy of grief at her supposed sacrifice when her father came home. Her case was then won. With her arms round his neck, sobbing against his heart, her tears and entreaties on his lips, Ben Denning had no feeling and no care for anyone but his daughter. He took her view of things at once. ”She HAD been badly used.
It WAS a shame to tie a girl like Dora to sermons and such like. It was like shutting her up in a convent.” Dora's tears and complaints fired him beyond reason. He promised her freedom whatever it cost him.
And while he sat in his private room considering the case, all the racial pa.s.sions of his rough ancestry burning within him, Basil Stanhope called to see him. He permitted him to come into his presence, but he rose as he entered, and walked hastily a few steps to meet him.
”What do you want here, sir?” he asked.
”My wife.”
”My daughter. You shall not see her. I have taken her back to my own care.”
”She is my wife. No one can take her from me.”
”I will teach you a different lesson.”
”The law of G.o.d.”
”The law of the land goes here. You'll find it more than you can defy.”