CHAPTER XXXVIII. ON THE JOURNEY BACK.
IF I had been traveling homeward in my own carriage, the remainingchapters of this narrative would never have been written. Before we hadbeen an hour on the road I should have called to the driver, and shouldhave told him to turn back.
Who can be always resolute?
In asking that question, I speak of the women, not of the men. Ihad been resolute in turning a deaf ear to Mr. Playmore's doubts andcautions; resolute in holding out against my mother-in-law; resolutein taking my place by the French mail. Until ten minutes after we haddriven away from the inn my courage held out--and then it failed me;then I said to myself, "You wretch, you have deserted your husband!" Forhours afterward, if I could have stopped the mail, I would have done it.I hated the conductor, the kindest of men. I hated the Spanish poniesthat drew us, the cheeriest animals that ever jingled a string ofbells. I hated the bright day that _would_ make things pleasant, andthe bracing air that forced me to feel the luxury of breathing whetherI liked it or not. Never was a journey more miserable than my safe andeasy journey to the frontier. But one little comfort helped me to bearmy heart-ache resignedly--a stolen morsel of Eustace's hair. We hadstarted at an hour of the morning when he was still sound asleep. Icould creep into his room, and kiss him, and cry over him softly, andcut off a stray lock of his hair, without danger of discovery. How Isummoned resolution enough to leave him is, to this hour, not clear tomy mind. I think my mother-in-law must have helped me, without meaningto do it. She came into the room with an erect head and a cold eye; shesaid, with an unmerciful emphasis on the word, "If you _mean_ to go,Valeria, the carriage is here." Any woman with a spark of spirit in herwould have "meant" it under those circumstances. I meant it--and did it.
And then I was sorry for it. Poor humanity! Time has got all the creditof being the great consoler of afflicted mortals. In my opinion, Timehas been overrated in this matter. Distance does the same beneficentwork far more speedily, and (when assisted by Change) far moreeffectually as well. On the railroad to Paris, I became capable oftaking a sensible view of my position. I could now remind myself thatmy husband's reception of me--after the first surprise and the firsthappiness had passed away--might not have justified his mother'sconfidence in him. Admitting that I ran a risk in going back toMiserrimus Dexter, should I not have been equally rash, in another way,if I had returned, uninvited, to a husband who had declared that ourconjugal happiness was impossible, and that our married life was at anend? Besides, who could say that the events of the future might not yet justify me--not only to myself, but to him? I might yet hear himsay, "She was inquisitive when she had no business to inquire; shewas obstinate when she ought; to have listened to reason; she left mybedside when other women would have remained; but in the end she atonedfor it all--she turned out to be right!"
I rested a day at Paris and wrote three letters.
One to Benjamin, telling him to expect me the next evening. One to Mr.Playmore, warning him, in good time, that I meant to make a last effortto penetrate the mystery at Gleninch. One to Eustace (of a few linesonly), owning that I had helped to nurse him through the dangerous partof his illness; confessing the one reason which had prevailed with meto leave him; and entreating him to suspend his opinion of me until timehad proved that I loved him more dearly than ever. This last letter Iinclosed to my mother-in-law, leaving it to her discretion to choose theright time for giving it to her son. I positively forbade Mrs. Macallan,however, to tell Eustace of the new tie between us. Although he _had_separated himself from me, I was determined that he should not hearit from other lips than mine. Never mind why. There are certain littlematters which I must keep to myself; and this is one of them.
My letters being written, my duty was done. I was free to play my lastcard in the game--the darkly doubtful game which was neither quite forme nor quite against me as the chances now stood.
The Law and the Lady Page 38
