Volume Ii Part 9 (1/2)
”You outraged my feelings. Was I to accept your insinuations of improper conduct as a polite compliment, or an everyday commonplace of domestic conversation?... You did not strike me, I admit--the man in you would restrain you from that; but you did worse!--the things you said.”
”Could I see people taking away your character by a shrug without giving you warning? Could I tell you about it, as something amusing and to your credit?”
”It was yourself who goaded me on to do whatever I did. And then to insult and desert me!”
”I did not desert you. I merely took rooms down town, leaving you in sole possession of the house until you should come to your senses....
You did not believe that I had deserted you; but you wanted to make me beg pardon and come back as if I had been to blame.”
”And so you _were_ to blame! The Court has decided that, and granted me my divorce.”
”And has your divorce, then, made you happy? Would you have filed your pet.i.tion, if you had expected to have it granted? You thought I would have come and prayed you to withdraw it. I let you take your course.
Was I wrong?”
”You knew you had no defence--had no case to plead--that I was right.
You let judgment go by default.”
”Did you imagine that I would plead?--have all our little altercations, which would have sounded so pitiful in Court, raked out and exposed before a crew of newspaper reporters, to be read and chuckled over by the people going home in the tram-cars? Did you imagine that I would attempt to keep you bound, if you wanted to break loose from the marriage tie? I would not have you, if I could, against your will.”
”You are very magnanimous, and I--of course I am the opposite--everything bad, and frivolous, and foolish. I wonder you should have troubled yourself to address against her will so poor a creature.”
”I have been waiting here all these days, Rose, in hopes of getting speech of you. You are not bad, or frivolous, or foolish. You are the only woman I have ever cared for, or ever shall. We have been--not very wise, shall I call it?--headstrong and obstinate, and neither would give in; and both, if I may venture to say it, have been miserable in consequence. Forget and forgive, Rose. Let's try again, begin the game anew, and profit by sad experience. It is for that I have been waiting here--to prevent this marriage of yours, if the people say true, which will make both you and me miserable for ever.”
”You are kind; but do you not exaggerate? My marriage at least will not leave you inconsolable. You have secured the consoler already.
I wish you joy of her. May she make you as happy as you deserve, and----” But here, to her own astonishment--for Rose had felt proud of her bravery and calmness throughout the interview--there came a spasm in her throat, which choked her utterance. The corners of her mouth began to droop, and her eyes sought the ground.
”Do you mean Maida Springer? This is worse than Horatia Simpkins! I am sure I have not flirted with Maida. Come, if you like, and ask her; she is sitting under that tree. She is an acquaintance of very old standing; that is all. She taught my uncle's children long ago, when I was a lad. We saw each other constantly when I was home from Harvard at the vacation. But there is nothing between us--never was. Come, ask her yourself. She is sitting behind this nearest tree: she will be the first to wish us joy.”
He took Rose's hand to lead her to the spot, and Rose had moved a step or two before she had recovered self-command enough to resist. The tree was very close. Whoever sat behind it must have overheard the conversation, for both had been too intent to keep their voices low.
Rose shrank from meeting the listener. She stopped short, and looked timidly where the eavesdropper was said to be.
There seemed little which need make her feel uneasy. A woman's figure--or was it only a bundle of summer clothing? so limp and collapsed it seemed--lay crouched and huddled together against the bole. The hat was pushed aside, the head bowed between the knees, and two slender hands spread out before it to exclude the light. The hair had come unfastened, and fell in wisps down to the ground, swaying and quivering in the sobbing tremor which shook the woman's frame.
Rose drew away her hand. ”It is too late to talk, Bertie. We have chosen our roads in life, and we must keep them. But we will think more kindly of one another now. I am engaged, as you know. I did it freely, and I must keep my word. I will not spoil the life of another--of a man who is as fond of me as this one, and so good and true. We will forgive one another--will we not?--and learn from sad experience more forbearance in our future lots. There he is coming. I shall go and meet him. Goodbye. We must not meet again.”
She went, leaving Gilbert elated at his success, but dissatisfied with its incompleteness, and a little doubtful how he ought to return to Maida Springer. They had been reclining rather aimlessly behind the tree, when he looked up and saw Rose almost upon them, and alone. It seemed to be now or never, if he was to have speech with her. He bounded to his feet without a word to his companion, and her own ears must soon have told her why. It felt decidedly awkward to return to Maida; yet what was he to do? He could not follow Rose without imperilling such way as he had made back to her favour, by inducing perhaps an ugly scene with Naylor; and having brought Maida there, he must fetch her back to her friends. It was an uncomfortable task, but it had to be performed. He hardened his soul, expecting to hear something unpleasant, composed his features, and turned round to the tree.
He might have spared his anxiety. The tree was deserted. No one was near. Far up the slope the flutter of a white gown and streaming blue veil might be discerned between the trees, in swift retreat, and Gilbert found that Maida had saved him the unpleasantness of an explanation.
CHAPTER XXIX.
”IT IS ALL A MESS!”
It fell hard upon Rose to have to meet Joseph again so immediately after the pa.s.sage she had gone through with Gilbert Roe--to pa.s.s, with scarce a pause in which to brace herself together, from the lover of her youth into the presence of the man to whom she had chosen to transfer her regard. She had fooled herself in her pique into the belief that she had trodden down and stamped out the last spark of kindness for the husband who had been, as she told herself, so hard and cruel and insulting--the man who could let her untie their marriage bond, without showing a sign or offering a word of remonstrance. He was nothing to her now--she had been saying it within herself ever since their separation--or if anything, only her aversion. She had been persuading herself that she was an injured woman, and that it was righteous resentment which she had been nursing against the unfeeling tyrant who had blighted her early wifehood. She had resolved that she would never speak to him again, nor even name him; that she would pluck out the very memory of her first and foolish love--have done with him for ever, and begin anew. (As if our past, the foundation of our present, could ever be obliterated!)
When he forced himself upon her so unexpectedly, the anger smouldering through her year of unmolested separation, the regret and disappointment grown sour in concealment and suppression, and turned by silence and defeated pride into what had seemed an inextinguishable hatred, had burst into a flame of fiercest indignation. It had burst into flame, but how pitifully soon it had burnt low! It had been but a fire of straw, blazing up for a moment and sinking as quickly as it rose; leaving nothing behind, nothing but the emptiness of separation.