Early on the day following Arthur’s departure from Isleworth, Lady Bellamy received a note from George requesting her, if convenient, to come and see him that morning, as he had something rather important to talk to her about.
“John,” she said to her husband at breakfast, “do you want the brougham this morning?”
“No. Why?”
“Because I am going over to Isleworth.”
“Hadn’t you better take the luggage-cart too, and your luggage in it, and live there altogether? It would save trouble, sending backwards and forwards,” suggested her husband, with severe sarcasm.
Lady Bellamy cut the top off an egg with a single clean stroke — all her movements were decisive — before she answered.
“I thought,” she said, “that we had done with that sort of nonsense some years ago; are you going to begin it again?”
“Yes, Lady Bellamy, I am. I am not going to stand being bullied and jeered at by that damned scoundrel Caresfoot any more. I am not going to stand your eternal visits to him.”
“You have stood them for twenty years; rather late in the day to object now, isn’t it?” she remarked, coolly, beginning her egg.
“It is never too late to mend; it is not too late for you to stop quietly at home and do your duty by your husband.”
“Most men would think that I had done my duty by him pretty well. Twenty years ago you were nobody, and had, comparatively speaking, nothing. Now you have a title and between three and four thousand a year. Who have you to thank for that? Certainly not yourself.”
“Curse the title and the money! I had rather be a poor devil of an attorney with a large family, and five hundred a year to keep them on, than live the life I do between you and that vulgar beast Caresfoot. It’s a dog’s life, not a man’s;” and poor Bellamy was so overcome at his real or imaginary wrongs that the tears actually rolled down his puffy little face.
His wife surveyed him with some amusement.
“I think,” she said, “that you are a miserable creature.”
“Perhaps I am, Anne; but I tell you what it is, even a miserable creature can be driven too far. It may perhaps be worth your while to be a little careful.”
She cast one swift look at him, a look not without apprehension in it, for there was a ring about his voice that she did not like, but his appearance was so ludicrously wretched that it reassured her. She finished her egg, and then, slowly driving the spoon through the shell, she said,
“Don’t threaten, John; it is a bad habit, and shows an unChristian state of mind; besides, it might force me to cr-r-rush you, in self-defence, you know;” and John and the egg-shell having finally collapsed together, Lady Bellamy ordered the brougham.
Having thus sufficiently scourged her husband, she departed in due course to visit her own taskmaster, little guessing what awaited her at his hands. After all, there is a deal of poetic justice in the world. Little Smith, fresh from his mother’s apron-strings, is savagely beaten by the cock of the school, Jones, and to him Jones is an all-powerful, cruel devil, placed above all possibility of retribution. If, however, little Smith could see the omnipotent Jones being mentally ploughed and harrowed by his papa the clergyman, in celebration of the double event of his having missed a scholarship and taken too much sherry, it is probable that his wounded feelings would be greatly soothed. Nor does it stop there. Robinson, the squire of the parish, takes it out of the Reverend Jones, and speaks ill of him to the bishop, a Low Churchman, on the matter of vestments, and very shortly afterwards Sir Buster Brown, the Chairman of the Quarter Sessions, expresses his opinion pretty freely of Robinson in his magisterial capacity, only in his turn to receive a most unexampled wigging from Her Majesty’s judge, Baron Muddlebone, for not showing him that respect he was accustomed to receive from the High Sheriff of the county. And even over the august person of the judge himself there hangs the fear of the only thing that he cannot commit for contempt, public opinion. Justice! why, the world is full of it, only it is mostly built upon a foundation of wrong.
Lady Bellamy found George sitting in the dining-room beside the safe that had so greatly interested her husband. It was open, and he was reading a selection from the bundle of letters which the reader may remember having seen in his hands before.
“How do, Anne?” he said, without rising. “You look very handsome this morning. I never saw a woman wear better.”
She vouchsafed no reply to his greeting, but turned as pale as death.
“What!” she said, huskily, pointing with her finger to the letters in his hand, “what are you doing with those letters?”
“Bravo, Anne; quite tragic. What a Lady Macbeth you would make! Come quote, ‘All the perfumes of Araby will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!’ Go on.”
“What are you doing with those letters?”
“Have you never broken a dog by showing him the whip, Anne? I have got something to ask of you, and I wish to get you into a generous frame of mind first. Listen now, I am going to read you a few extracts from a past that is so vividly recorded here.”
She sank into a chair, hid her face in her hands, and groaned. George, whose own features betrayed a certain nervousness, took a yellow sheet of paper, and began to read.
“‘Do you know how old I am today? Nineteen, and I have been married a year and a half. Ah! what a happy lass I was before I married; how they worshipped me in my old home! “Queen Anne,” they always called me. Well, they are dead now, and pray God they sleep so sound that they can neither hear nor see. Yes, a year and a half — a year of happiness, half a year of hell; happiness whilst I did not know you, hell since I saw your face. What secret spring of wickedness did you touch in my heart? I never had a thought of wrong before you came. But when I first set eyes upon your face, I felt some strange change come over me: I recognized my evil destiny. How you discovered my fascination, how you led me on to evil, you best know. I am no coward, I do not wish to excuse myself, but sometimes I think that you have much to answer for, George. Hark, I hear my baby crying, my beautiful boy with his father’s eyes. Do you know, I believe that the child has grown afraid of me: it beats at me with its tiny hands. I think that my very dog dislikes me now. They know me as I am; Nature tells them; everybody knows me except him. He will come in presently from visiting his sick and poor, and kiss me and call me his sweet wife, and I shall act the living lie. Oh! God, I cannot bear it much longer ——’
“There is more of the same sort,” remarked George, coolly. “It affords a most interesting study of mental anatomy, but I have no time to read more of it. We will pass on to another.”
Lady Bellamy did not move; she sat trembling a little, her face buried in her hands.
He took up a second letter and began to read a marked passage.
“‘The die is cast, I will come; I can no longer resist your influence; it grows stronger every day, and now it makes me a murderess, for the shock will kill him. And yet I am tired of the sameness and smallness of my life; my mind is too big to be cramped in such narrow fetters.’
“That extract is really very funny,” said George, critically. “But don’t look depressed, Anne, I am only going to trouble you with one more dated a year or so later.............