Part 41 (1/2)
But there was nothing tender in his eye, no tender tone softened the words which fell from his mouth.
”What!” he said, and in spite of his promise, his voice had never before sounded so stern,--”what! show that letter to another man; show that letter to Mr. Harcourt! Is that true, Caroline?”
A child asks pardon from his mother because he is scolded. He wishes to avert her wrath in order that he may escape punishment. So also may a servant of his master, or an inferior of his superior. But when one equal asks pardon of another, it is because he acknowledges and regrets the injury he has done. Such acknowledgment, such regret will seldom be produced by a stern face and a harsh voice. Caroline, as she looked at him and listened to him, did not go down on her knees--not even mentally. Instead of doing so, she remembered her dignity, and wretched as she was at heart, she continued to seat herself without betraying her misery.
”Is that true, Caroline? I will believe the charge against you from no other lips than your own.”
”Yes, George; it is true. I did show your letter to Mr. Harcourt.” So stern had he been in his bearing that she could not condescend even to a word of apology.
He had hitherto remained standing; but on hearing this he flung himself into a chair and buried his face in his hands. Even then she might have been softened, and he might have relented, and all might have been well!
”I was very unhappy, George,” she said; ”that letter had made me very unhappy, and I hardly knew where to turn for relief.”
”What!” he said, jumping up and flas.h.i.+ng before her in a storm of pa.s.sion to which his former sternness had been as nothing--”what!
my letter made you so unhappy that you were obliged to go to Mr.
Harcourt for relief! You appealed for sympathy from me to him! from me who am--no, who was, your affianced husband! Had you no idea of the sort of bond that existed between you and me? Did you not know that there were matters in which you could not look for sympathy to such as him without being false, nay, almost worse than false? Have you ever thought what it is to be the one loved object of a man's heart, and to have accepted that love?” She had been on the point of interrupting him, but the softness of these last words interrupted her for a moment.
”Such a letter as that! Do you remember that letter, Caroline?”
”Yes, I remember it; remember it too well; I would not keep it. I would not feel that such words from you were ever by me.”
”You mean that it was harsh?”
”It was cruel.”
”Harsh or cruel, or what you will--I shall not now stop to defend it--it was one which from the very nature of it should have been sacred between us. It was written to you as to one to whom I had a right to write as my future wife.”
”No one could have a right to write such a letter as that.”
”In it, I particularly begged that Mr. Harcourt might not be made an arbiter between us. I made a special request that to him, at least, you would not talk of what causes of trouble there might be between us; and yet you selected him as your confidant, read it with him, poured over with him the words which had come hot from my heart, discussed with him my love--my--my--my-- Bah! I cannot endure it; had not you yourself told me so, I could not have believed it.”
”George!--”
”Good G.o.d! that you should take my letters and read them over with him! Why, Caroline, it admits but of one solution; there is but one reading to the riddle; ask all the world.”
”We sent for him as your friend.”
”Yes, and seem to have soon used him as your own. I have no friend to whom I allow the privilege of going between me and my own heart's love. Yes, you were my own heart's love. I have to get over that complaint now as best I may.”
”I may consider then that all is over between us.”
”Yes; there. You have back your hand. It is again your own to dispose of to whom you will. Let you have what confidences you will, they will no longer imply falsehood to me.”
”Then, sir, if such be the case, I think you may cease to scold me with such violence.”
”I have long felt that I ought to give you this release; for I have known that you have not thoroughly loved me.”
Miss Waddington was too proud, too conscious of the necessity to maintain her pride at the present moment to contradict this. But, nevertheless, in her heart she felt that she did love him, that she would fain not give him up, that, in spite of his anger, his bitter railing anger, she would keep him close to her if she only could do so. But now that he spoke of giving her up, she could not speak pa.s.sionately of her love--she who had never yet shown any pa.s.sion in her speech to him.
”It has grown on me from day to day; and I have been like a child in clinging to a hope when I should have known that there was no hope. I should have known it when you deferred our marriage for three years.”