menu_book Chapter 50

CHAPTER 50. Tis with our judgment as our watches none. Go just alike, yet each believes his own. Lord Baltimore had not spoken in a mere fit or peak when he told Lady Swansdown of his fixed intention of putting a term to his present life. His last interview with his wife had him to throw up everything and seek forgetfulness in travel. Inclination had pointed toward

such countries as Africa or the northern parts of America as, being a keen sportsman, he believed there he might find an occupation that would distract his mind from the thoughts that now jarred upon him incessantly. His asking Lady Swansdown to accompany him therefore had been a sudden determination. To go on a lengthen shooting expedition by oneself is one thing, to go with a woman delicately nurtured is another. Of course, had she agreed

to his proposal all his plans must necessarily have been altered, and perhaps his second feeling, after her refusal to go with him, was one of unmistakable relief. His proposal to her at least had been borne of peak. The next morning found him, however, still strong in his desire for change. The desire was even so far stronger that he now burned to put it into execution, to get away to some fresh new sphere of action, and deliberately set

himself to obliterate from his memory all past ties and recollections. There was, too, perhaps a touch of revenge that bordered upon pleasure as he thought of what his wife would say when she heard of his decision. She who shrank so delicately from gossip of all kinds could not fail to be distressed by news that must inevitably leave her and her private affairs open to public criticism. Though everybody was perpetually guessing about her domestic

relations with her husband, no one as a matter of fact knew, except indeed two, quite the real truth about them. This would effectually open the eyes of society and proclaim to everybody that, though she had refused to demand a separation, still she had been obliged to accept it. This would touch her. If in no other way could he get at her proud spirit, here now he would triumph. She had been anxious to get rid of him in a respectable way, of course, but death

as usual had declined to step in when most wanted, and now, well, she must accept her release in however disreputable a guise it comes. It is just at the moment when Mrs. Blake is holding forth on Lady Baltimore's affairs to Mrs. Monkton that Baltimore enters the smaller drawing-room, where he knows he will be sure to meet his wife at this hour. It is far in the afternoon. Still the spring sunshine is streaming through the windows.

Lady Baltimore, in a heavy tea-gown of pale green plush, is sitting by the fire reading a book. Her little son upon the hearth, rug beside her. The place is strewn with bricks, and the boy, as his father enters, looks up at him and calls to him eagerly to come and help him. At the sound of the child's quick, glad voice a pang contracts Baltimore's heart. The child, he had forgotten him.

"'I can't make this castle,' says Bertie, and mother isn't a bit of good. Hers always fall down. Come you and make me one.' "'Not now,' says Baltimore. "'Not today. Run away to your nurse. I want to speak to your mother.' There is something abrupt and jerky in his manner, something strained, and with sufficient

temper in it to make the child cease from entreaty. The very pain Baltimore is feeling has made his manner harsher to the child. Yet as the latter passes him obediently, he seizes the small figure in his arms and presses him convulsively to his breast. Then, putting him down, he points silently but preemptorily to the door. "'Well,' says Lady Baltimore, she has risen, startled by his abrupt entrance, his tone,

and more than all by the last brief but passionate burst of affection toward the child. You wish to speak to me again?' "'There won't be many more opportunities,' says he grimly. You may safely give me a few moments today. I bring you good news. I am going abroad, at once, for ever.' In spite of the self-control she has taught herself, Lady Baltimore's self-possession

gives way. Her brain seems to reel. Instinctively she grasps hold of the back of a tall pre-dew next to her. "'Ha!' I thought so. I have touched her at last through her pride,' thinks Baltimore, watching her with a savage satisfaction, which, however, hurts him horribly. And after all he was wrong, too. He had touched her, indeed, but it was her heart, not her pride.

He had wounded.' "'Abroad?' echoes she faintly. "'Yes, why not? I am sick of this sort of life. I have decided on flinging it up.' "'Since when have you come to this decision?' asks she presently, having conquered her sudden weakness by a supreme effort.

"'If you want day and date, I am afraid I shan't be able to supply you. It has been growing upon me for some time, the idea of it. I mean—' "'And last night you brought it to perfection. I?' "'Have you already forgotten all the complimentary speeches you made me? They,' with a sardonic smile, "'are so sweet to me that I shall keep them

ripe in my memory until death overtakes me. And after it, I think, you told me, among many other wifey things, if my mind does not deceive me, that you wished me well out of your life and Lady Swanston with me. That is a direct and most malicious misapplication of my words,' says she emphatically. "'It is? I confess that was my reading of them. I accepted that version, and thinking

to you a good turn, and relieve you both of your bet noir at once. I proposed to Lady Swanston last night that she should accompany me upon my endless travels.' There is a long, long pause during which Lady Baltimore's face seems to have grown into marble. She takes a step forward now. Through the stern pallor of her skin her large eyes seem to gleam like fire.

"'How dare you!' she says in a voice very low, but so intense that it rings through the room. "'How dare you tell me of this? Are you lost to all shame? You and she to go away together? It is only what I have been anticipating for months. I could see how it was with you, but that you should have the insolence to stand before me.'

She grows almost magnificent in her wrath, and declare your infamy aloud. Such a thought was beyond me. There was a time when I would have thought it beyond you. "'Was there?' says he, he laughs aloud. "'There, there, there,' says she with a rather wild sort of sigh. Why should I waste a single emotion upon you? Let me take you calmly, casually. Come, come

now.' It is the saddest thing in a world to see how she treads down the passionate most natural uprisings within her against the injust of life. Make me at least au courant with your movements. You and she will go—where?' "'To the devil, you thought, didn't you?' says he. "'Well, you would be disappointed as far as she is concerned. I may be going. It appears

she doesn't think it worth while to accompany me there or anywhere else. You mean that she refused to go with you?' "'In the very boldest language, I assure you. It left nothing to be desired, believe me, in the matter of lucidity. No, she would not go with me. You see, there is not only one, but two women in the world who regard me as being utterly without charm.'

"'I commiserate you,' says she with a bitter sneer, if, after all your attention to her, your friend has proved faithless. "'I don't waste your pity,' says he, interrupting her rather rudely. On the whole, the decision on my friend, as you call her, was rather a relief to me than otherwise. I felt my duty to deprive you of her society,' with an unpleasant laugh, and so I asked her to come with me.

When she declined to accompany me, she left me free to devote myself to sport.' "'Ah, you refuse to be corrupted,' says she, contemplously. "'Think what you will,' says he, restrained himself with determination. It doesn't matter in the least to me now. Your opinion I consider worthless, because, prejudiced, as worthless as you consider me, I came here simply to tell you of my determination to go abroad.

You have told me of that already. Lady Swanston, having failed you, may I ask, with studied contempt, who are you going to take with you now?' "'What do you mean?' says he, wheeling round to her. "'What do you mean by that? By heavens!' laying his hands upon her shoulders, and looking with fierce eyes into her pale face, and men might well kill you.

"'And why?' demands she, undauntedly. You would have taken her. You have confessed so much. You have the coarse courage to put it in words. If not her, why, with a shrug, then another?' "'There. Think as you will,' says he, releasing her roughly. Nothing I could say would convince or move you, and yet I know it is no use. But I am determined I will leave nothing unsaid.

I will give you no loophole. I asked her to go with me in a moment of irritation, of loneliness, if you will. It is hard for a man to be forever outside the pale of affection, and I thought, well, it is a matter of what I thought. I was wrong, it seems. As for caring for her, I cared so little that I now feel actually glad she had the sense to refuse my senseless proposal. She would have bored me, I think, and I should undoubtedly have bored her. The

proposition was made to her in a moment of folly. Oh, folly!' she says with a curious laugh. "'Well, give it another name you like. After all,' in a low tone, "'you are right. It was not the word. If I had said despair, I should have been near the mark.' "'There even might be another word,' she said slowly.

"'Even if there were,' says he, "'the occasion for it is of your making. You have thrown me. You must be prepared, therefore, to accept the consequences.' "'You have prepared me for anything,' says she calmly, but with a bitter meaning. "'See here,' says he furiously, "'there may still be one thing left for you which I have not prepared. You have just asked me who I was going to take with me when I leave this

place for ever. Shall I answer you?' Something in this manner terrifies her. She feels her face blanching. Words are denied her, but she makes a faint movement to ascent with her hand. What is he going to say? What if I should decide then on taking my son with me?' says he violently. "'Who is there to prevent me? Not you or another. Thus I could cut all ties and put you out

of my life at once and for ever.' "'He had certainly not calculated on the force of his words or his manner. It had been a mere angry suggestion. There was no cruelty in Baltimore's nature. He had never once permitted himself to dwell upon the possibility of separating the boy from his mother. Such terrible revenge as that was beyond him. His whole nature would have revolted against it. He had spoken with

passion, urged by her contempt into a desire to show her where his power lay without any intention of actually using it. He meant perhaps to weaken her intolerable defiance and show her where a hole in her armour lay. He was not prepared for the effect of his words. An ashen shade has overspread her face. Her expression has become ghostly. As though her limbs have suddenly given way under her, she falls against the mantelpiece and clings to

it with trembling fingers, her eyes wild and anguish. Seek his.' "'The child!' gasped she in a voice of mortal terror. "'The child! not the child! O Baltimore, you have taken all from me except that. Leave my child.' "'Good heavens! don't look at me like that!' exclaimed he, inexpressively shocked. This

sudden and complete abandonment of herself to her fear has horrified him. I never meant it. I but suggested a possibility. The child shall stay with you. Do you hear me, Isabel? The child is yours. When I go, I go alone.' There is a moment's silence, and then she bursts into tears. It is a sharp reaction, and it shakes her bodily and mentally. A wild return of her love for him, that first sweet

and only love of her life, returns to her, born of intense gratitude, but sadly, slowly it dies away again. It seems to her too late to dream of that again. Yet perhaps her tears have as much to do with that lost love as with her gratitude. Slowly her colour returns. She checks her sobs. She raises her head and looks at him, still with her handkerchief pressed to her tremulous lips.

"'It is a promise,' says she. Yes, a promise. You will not change again.' Nervously. "'You are doubt to the last,' says he. It is a promise from me to you, and of course the word of such a reprobate as you consider me can scarcely be of any avail. But you could not break this promise,' says she in a low voice and with a long, long sigh.

"'What trust you place in me?' said he with an open sneer. Well, so be it. I give you home and child. You give me, not worth while going into the magnificent of your gifts, is it? I give you once a whole heart and unbroken faith,' says she, and you took them back again. Child's play,' said he. Child's promises. Well, if you will have it so, you will have got a promise from me now, and I think you might say thank you for it as children do.'

I do thank you,' says she vehemently. Does not my whole manner speak for me?' Once again her eyes filled with tears. "'So much love for the child,' cries he in a stinging tone, and not one thought for the father. True, your professions of love were light in thistle-down. There you are not worth a thought yourself. Expend any affection you have upon your son, and forget me as soon

as ever you can. It will not take you long once I am out of your sight.' He strides towards the door and then looks back at her. "'You understand about my going,' he says, that it is decided, I mean.' "'As you will,' says she, her glance on the ground, there is such a total lack of emotion in her whole air that it be suggested itself to an acute student of human nature that she

is doing her very utmost to suppress even the smallest sign of it, but alas Baltimore is not that student. Be just,' says he sternly, it is as you will, not as I. It is you who are driving me into exile.' He has turned his back and has his hand on the handle of the door in the act of opening it. At this instant she makes a move toward him, holding out her hands, but as suddenly suppresses herself. When he turns again to say a last

word she is standing where he last saw her, pale and impassive as a statue. There will be some matters to arrange,' says he, before my going. I have telegraphed to Hansard, his lawyer. He will be down in the morning. There will be a few papers for you to sign to-morrow. Papers? My will and your maintenance while I am away, and matters that will concern the child's future. His future? That means? That in all probability, when I have started I

shall never see his face again, or yours.' He opens the door abruptly and is seated.