A Wife's Duty Part 11

I was therefore relieved when Lord Martindale came up to him, as if he meant to resent the violence offered to his lady's dog; but on approaching De Walden, he said, with great good humour--"That was right, Count De Walden; and if you had not done it, _I_ should. Only think that a beast like that should presume to interrupt a Seraph!"

"Ah! if it was but he alone that presumed in this room, it would be well; but we often make example of one who is guilty the least."

Lord Martindale did not choose to ask an explanation of these words, but, turning to me, requested me to resume my guitar and my song. But I had not yet recovered my emotion, nor perhaps would it have been consistent with my self-respect to comply.

Certainly De Walden thought not; for he said in a low voice "_Ma chere amie, de grace ne chantez pas!_"[5] and I was firm in my refusal.

[Footnote 5: My dear friend, pray do not sing!]

Perhaps it was well that I was not allowed to go on with my song, as the words were only too expressive of my own feelings, for they were as follows:--

SONG.

How bright this summer's sun appear'd!

How blue to me this summer's sky!

While all I saw and all I heard Could charm my ear, could bless my eye.

The lonely bower, the splendid crowd, Alike a joy for me possess'd; My heart a charm on all bestow'd, For that confiding heart was _bless'd_.

But thou art changed!--and now no more The sun is bright, or blue the sky; Now in the throng, or in the bower, I only mark thy _alter'd eye_.

And though midst crowds I still appear, And seem to list the minstrel's strain, I heed it not--I only hear My _own deep sigh_ that mourns in vain.

My carriage was announced soon afterwards; and I saw by the manner of both, that Lady Martindale was trying to persuade my husband to stay all night: but as De Walden came with us, propriety, if not inclination, forbade him to comply, and he sullenly enough followed De Walden and me to the carriage. When there, that considerate friend refused to enter it--declaring as it was moon-light he preferred walking home.

What a relief was this to my mind! for I dreaded some unpleasant altercation, especially if De Walden expressed the belief which he evidently entertained, that Lady Martindale and Annette Beauvais were the same person.

When he entered the carriage my husband threw himself into one corner of it, and remained silent. I expected this: still I did not know how to bear it; for I could not help contrasting the past with the present. Is there--no, there is not--so agonizing a feeling in the catalogue of human suffering, as the first conviction that the heart of the being whom we most tenderly love, is estranged from us? In vain could I pretend to doubt this overwhelming fact. Seymour had resented for another woman, and to me! He had even joined in, and enjoyed, the mean revenge that woman took, though that revenge was a public affront to me!

And now in sullen silence, and in still rankling resentment, he was sitting as far from me as he possibly could sit, and the attachment of years seemed in one hour destroyed!

All this I felt and thought during the first mile of our drive home: but so closely does hope ever tread on the heels of despair, that one word from Pendarves banished the worst part of my misery; for in an angry tone he at length observed, "So, madam, your champion would not go with us: I think it is a pity you did not walk with him--I think you ought to have done no less, after his public gallantry in your service."

"Ha!" thought I immediately, "this is pique, this is jealousy; and perhaps he loves me still!" What a revulsion of feeling I now experienced! and never in his fondest moments did I value an expression of tenderness from him more, than I did this weak and churlish observation; for he was not silent and sullen on account of Lady Martindale's fancied injuries; but from resentment of De Walden's interference. In one moment therefore the face of nature itself seemed changed to me; and I eagerly replied, "I was certainly much obliged to De Walden--I needed a champion, and who so proper to be it as himself, the only old friend I had in the room, yourself excepted, and the only person in it probably who now (here my voice faltered) has a real regard and affection for me!"

"Helen!" cried Pendarves, starting up, "you cannot mean what you say!

You do not, cannot believe that De Walden loves you better than _I_ do."

"If I had not believed it I should not have said it."

"But how could you believe it? Has he dared to talk to you of love?"

"Do you think he could forget himself so far as to do such a thing? or if he did, do you think I could forget myself so far as to listen to him? Surely, sir, you forget of whom and to whom you are speaking."

"Forgive me: I spoke from pique. And so, Helen, you think I do not love you?"

"Not as you did, certainly: but I excuse you. I know grief has changed me; and it had been better for me to have died, if it had so pleased G.o.d, when my poor child died."

"Helen! dearest! do not talk thus, I cannot bear it!" he exclaimed, clasping me to his heart; and though I then wept even more abundantly than before, I wept on his bosom, and all my sorrows were for awhile forgotten.

The next morning Pendarves told me he should certainly breakfast with me; but he must leave me soon to partake of a late breakfast at Oswald Lodge, as he had promised to go with the party to call on a family, with whom they were to arrange some private theatricals.

"And are you to engage in them?"

"Oh! to be sure: it will not be the first time of my acting."

"And will Lady Martindale act?"

"Yes: but not with us. We shall act in English: she will favour us with a mono-drame, a ballet of action, and perhaps read a French play, which she reads to perfection."

"Not better than she dances, I dare say; for dancing, I suspect, was once one of her professions."

"What nonsense is this Helen? and who has dared to give such an erroneous and false impression of this admirable woman?"

"Surely you must have perceived that De Walden meant to insinuate that she and Annette Beauvais are the same person?"

"Then he is a vile calumniator."

"Not so: he is only a mistaken man."

"But it seems you think he cannot be mistaken: he is an oracle!"

"My love," replied I, "we had better not talk of De Walden."

"You are right, Helen, quite right; for I am conscious of great irritation when I think of him: for I feel, I cannot but feel, how much more worthy of you he is than I am; and yet, foolish girl, you gave him up for me. O Helen! when I saw him, impatient of affront to you, step forward with that flas.h.i.+ng eye, that commanding air, to seize the offending brute, though I could have stabbed him, I could also have embraced him; and I said within myself, 'And to this man Helen preferred me! How she must repent her folly now!'"

"She never has repented, she never can repent it," said I, throwing myself upon his neck. "You know I took you with all your faults open to my view."

"Yes: but you fancied love and you would reform them!"

"I did--and I think we may do so still: but you must not let me fancy you do not love me, Seymour; if you do, I shall pine and mope, and become the object of your aversion."

"Impossible! do you think I can ever dislike you, Helen?"

"Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?" said I, returning his embrace.

"I will hear no more of such horrible surmises: I have now outstaid my time."

Then mounting his horse, he was out of sight in a moment.

Soon after my mother appeared, and, to my surprise, unaccompanied by De Walden.

"Where is our friend?" was my first salutation.

"On the road to London."

"London! And why?"

"He had his reasons for going; and, as usual, they do honour both to his head and heart."