Part 40 (1/2)
”Indeed it does. It affects me so far, that it alters the whole course of my life. In spite of everything that has seemed to come between us, I have never allowed myself to think of our engagement as at an end.
The parcel you sent me the other day is unopened; if you do not open it yourself no one ever shall. Whatever _you_ may do, I cannot break faith. You ought to know me better than to misinterpret a few foolish and hasty words, and appearances that had a meaning you should have understood. The time has come now for putting an end to those misconceptions.”
”They no longer concern me. Please to speak of something else.”
”You must, at all events, understand my position before we part. This morning I was as firmly resolved as ever to risk everything, to renounce the aid of my relatives if it must be and face poverty for the sake of art. Now all is changed. I shall accept my step-father's offer, and all its results becoming, if it can't be helped, a mere man of business. I do this because of my sacred duties to _you_. As an artist, there's no telling how long it might be before I could ask you again to be my wife; as a man of business, I may soon be in a position to do so.
Don't interrupt me, I entreat! It is no matter to me if you repulse me now, in your anger. I consider the engagement as still existing between us, and, such being the ease, it is plainly my duty to take such steps as will enable me to offer you a home. By remaining an artist, I should satisfy one part of my conscience, but at the expense of all my better feelings; it might even be supposed--though, I trust, not by you--that I made my helplessness an excuse for forgetting you when most you needed kindness. I shall go back to England, and devote myself with energy to the new task, however repulsive it may prove. Whether you think of me or not, I do it for your sake; you cannot rob me of that satisfaction. Some day I shall again stand before you, and ask you for what you once promised. If then you refuse--well, I must bear the loss of all my hopes.”
”You may direct your life as you choose,” Madeline replied scornfully, ”but you will please to understand that I give you no encouragement to hope anything from me. I almost believe you capable of saying, some day, that you took this step because I urged you to it. I have no interest whatever in your future; our paths are separate. Let this be the end of it.”
But it was very far from the end of it. When the carriage stopped at Mrs. Gluck's, mutual reproaches were at their height.
”You shall not leave me yet, Madeline,” said Clifford, as he alighted.
”Come to the other side of the road, and let us walk along for a few minutes. You shall not go in, if I have to hold you by force.”
Madeline yielded, and in the light of the moon they walked side by side, continuing their dialogue.
”You are heartless! You have played with me from the first.”
”If so, I only treated you as you thought to treat me.”
”That you can attribute such baseness to me proves how incapable you are of distinguis.h.i.+ng between truth and falsehood. How wretchedly I have been deceived in you!”
From upbraiding, he fell to lamentation. His life was wrecked; he had lost his ideals; and all through her unworthiness. Then, as Madeline was still unrelenting, he began to humble himself. He confessed his levity; he had not considered the risk he ran of losing her respect; all he had done was in pique at her treatment of him. And in the end he implored her forgiveness, besought her to restore him to life by accepting his unqualified submission. To part from her on such terms as these meant despair; the consequences would be tragic. And when he could go no further in amorous supplication, when she felt that her injured pride had exacted the uttermost from his penitence, Madeline at length relented.
”Still,” she said, after his outburst of grat.i.tude, ”don't think that I ask you to become a man of business. You shall never charge me with that. It is your nature to reproach other people when anything goes wrong with you; I know you only too well. You must decide for yourself; I will take no responsibility.”
Yes, he accepted that; it was purely his own choice. Rather than lose her, he would toil at any most ign.o.ble pursuit, amply repaid by the hope she granted him.
They had walked some distance, and were out of sight of the Mergellina, on the ascending road of Posillipo, all the moonlit glory of the bay before them.
”It will be long before we see it again,” said Madeline, sadly.
”We will spend our honeymoon here,” was Clifford's hopeful reply.
CHAPTER XVI
LETTERS
On the thirteenth day after the flight from Capri, Edward Spence, leaving the villa for his afternoon walk, encountered the postman and received from him three letters. One was addressed to Ross Mallard, Esq., care of Edward Spence, Esq.; another, to Mrs. Spence; the third, to Mrs. Baske. As he reascended the stairs, somewhat more quickly than his wont, Spence gave narrow attention to the handwriting on the envelopes. He found Eleanor where he had left her a few minutes before, at the piano, busy with a difficult pa.s.sage of Brahms. She looked round in surprise, and on seeing the letters started up eagerly.
”Do you know Elgar's hand?” Spence asked. ”These two from London are his, I should imagine. This for you is from Mrs. Lessingham, isn't it?”
”Yes; I think this is the news, at last,” said Eleanor, inspecting Mrs.
Baske's letter, not without feminine emotion. ”I'll take it to her.
Shall you go over with the other?”