Part 75 (1/2)
”Every right!” he answered, with violence. ”What warning have I had of such a thing?”
She rose and moved away with a scornful laugh. For a minute he looked at her as she stood apart, her face turned from him.
”If I find Mallard,” he said, ”of course I shall tell him who my authority is.”
She turned.
”No; that you will not do!”
”And why not?”
”Because I forbid you. You will not dare to mention my name in any such conversation! Besides”--her voice fell to a tone of indifference--”if you meet him, there will be no need. You will ask your question, and that will be enough. There is very little chance of his being at the studio.”
”I see that your Puritan spirit is gratified,” he said, looking at her with fierce eyes.
”Naturally.”
He went towards the door. Miriam, raising her eyes and following him a step or two, said sternly:
”In any case, you understand that my name is not to be spoken. Show at least some remnant of honour. Remember who I am, and don't involve me in your degradation.”
”Have no fear. Your garment of righteousness shall not be soiled.”
When he was gone, Miriam sat for a short time alone. She had not foreseen this sequel of yesterday's event. In spite of all the promptings of her jealous fear, she had striven to explain Cecily's visit in some harmless way. Mean what it might, it tortured her; but, in her ignorance of what was happening between Cecily and her husband, she tried to believe that Mallard was perhaps acting the part of reconciler--not an unlikely thing, as her better judgment told her. Now she could no longer listen to such calm suggestions. Cecily had abandoned her home, and with Mallard's knowledge, if not at his persuasion.
She thought of Reuben with all but hatred. He was the cause of the despair which had come upon her. The abhorrence with which she regarded his vices--no whit less strong for all her changed habits of thought--blended now with the sense of personal injury; this only had been lacking to destroy what natural tenderness remained in her feeling towards him. Cecily she hated, without the power of condemning her as she formerly would have done. The old voice of conscience was not mute, but Miriam turned from it with sullen scorn. If Cecily declared her marriage at an end, what fault could reason find with her? If she acted undisguisedly as a free woman, how was she to blame? Reuben's praise of her might still keep its truth. And the unwilling conviction of this was one of Miriam's sharpest torments. She would have liked to regard her with disdainful condemnation, or a fugitive wife, a dishonoured woman. But the power of sincerely judging thus was gone. Reuben had taunted her amiss.
Presently she left her room and went to seek Eleanor. Mrs. Spence was writing; she laid down her pen, and glanced at Miriam, but did not speak.
”Cecily has left her home,” Miriam said, with matter-of-fact brevity.
Eleanor stood up.
”Parted from him?”
”It seems be didn't go to the house till late last night. She had left in the afternoon, and did not come back.”
”Then they have not met?”.
”No.”
”And had Cecily heard?”
”There's no knowing.”
”Of course, she has gone to Mrs. Lessingham.”
”I think not,” replied Miriam, turning away.
”Why?”