Part 68 (1/2)
”Clara,” said her husband solemnly, with a strange light in his eyes, ”I would rather kill you than divorce you!”
There was something so terribly earnest in his tone that her heart beat fast with fear.
”Kill me?--kill me?” she gasped, with white lips.
”Yes!” he repeated, ”kill you,--as a Frenchman or an Italian would,--and take the consequences. Yes--though an Englishman, I would rather do this than drag your frail poor womanhood through the mire of public scandal!
I have, perhaps, a strange nature, but such as I am, I am. There are too many of our high-born families already, flaunting their immorality and low licentiousness in the face of the mocking, grinning populace,--I for one could never make up my mind to fling the honor of my son's mother to them, as though it were a bone for dogs to fight over. No--I have another proposition to make to you--”
He stopped short. She stared at him wonderingly. He resumed in methodical, unmoved, business-like tones.
”I propose, Clara, simply,--to leave you! I'll take the boy and absent myself from this country, so as to give you perfect freedom and save you all trouble. There'll be no possibility of scandal, for I will keep you cognizant of my movements,--and should you require my presence at any time for the sake of appearances,--or--to s.h.i.+eld you from calumny,--you may rely on my returning to you at once,--without delay. Ernest will gain many advantages by travel,--his education is quite a sufficient motive for my departure, my interest in his young life being well known to all our circle. Moreover, with me--under my surveillance--he need never know anything against--against you. I have always taught him to honor and obey you in his heart.”
Lord Winsleigh paused a moment--then went on, somewhat musingly;--”When he was quite little, he used to wonder why you didn't love him,--it was hard for me to hear him say that, sometimes. But I always told him that you did love him--but that you had so many visits to makes and so many friends to entertain, that you had no time to play with him. I don't think he quite understood,--but still--I did my best!”
He was silent. She had hidden her face again in her hands, and he heard a sound of smothered sobbing.
”I think,” he continued calmly, ”that he has a great reverence for you in his young heart--a feeling which partakes, perhaps, more of fear than love--still it is better than--disdain--or--or disrespect. I shall always teach him to esteem you highly,--but I think, as matters stand--if I relieve you of all your responsibilities to husband and son--you--Clara!--pray don't distress yourself--there's no occasion for this--Clara--”
For on a sudden impulse she had flung herself at his feet in an irrepressible storm of pa.s.sionate weeping.
”Kill me, Harry!” she sobbed wildly, clinging to him. ”Kill me! don't speak to me like this!--don't leave me! Oh, my G.o.d! don't, don't despise me so utterly! Hate me--curse me--strike me--do anything, but don't leave me as if I were some low thing, unfit for your touch,--I know I am, but oh, Harry! . . .” She clung to him more closely. ”If you leave me I will not live,--I cannot! Have you no pity? Why would you throw me back alone--all, all alone, to die of your contempt and my shame!”
And she bowed her head in an agony of tears.
He looked down upon her a moment in silence.
”Your shame!” he murmured. ”My wife--”
Then he raised her in his arms and drew her with a strange hesitation of touch, to his breast, as though she were some sick or wounded child, and watched her as she lay there weeping, her face hidden, her whole frame trembling in his embrace.
”Poor soul!” he whispered, more to himself than to her. ”Poor frail woman! Hush, hush, Clara! The past is past! I'll make you no more reproaches. I--I _can't_ hurt you, because I once so loved you--but now--now,--what _is_ there left for me to do, but to leave you? You'll be happier so--you'll have perfect liberty--you needn't even think of me--unless, perhaps, as one dead and buried long ago--”
She raised herself in his arms and looked at him piteously.
”Won't you give me a chance?” she sobbed. ”Not one? If I had but known you better--if I had understood oh, I've been vile, wicked, deceitful--but I'm not happy, Harry--I've never been happy since I wronged you! Won't you give me one little hope that I may win your love again,--no, not your love, but your pity? Oh, Harry, have I lost all--all--”
Her voice broke--she could say no more.
He stroked her hair gently. ”You speak on impulse just now, Clara,” he said gravely yet tenderly. ”You can't know your own strength or weakness. G.o.d forbid that _I_ should judge you harshly! As you wish it, I will not leave you yet. I'll wait. Whether we part or remain together, shall be decided by your own actions, your own looks, your own words.
You understand, Clara? You know my feelings. I'm content for the present to place my fate in your hands.” He smiled rather sadly. ”But for love, Clara--I fear nothing can be done to warm to life this poor perished love of ours. We can, perhaps, take hands and watch its corpse patiently together and say how sorry we are it is dead--such penitence comes always too late!”
He sighed, and put her gently away from him.
She turned up her flushed, tear-stained face to his.
”Will you kiss me, Harry?” she asked tremblingly. He met her eyes, and an exclamation that was almost a groan broke from his lips. A shudder pa.s.sed through his frame.
”I can't, Clara! I can't--G.o.d forgive me!--Not yet!” And with that he bowed his head and left her.