Worse even than all this,—not morally worse, for that could hardly be, but worse in its actual results upon my happiness,—when Arthur came to Beckdale, to learn if he had any hope of winning me; which she seems to have divined as his object; she set herself deliberately, falsely, to quash his hopes. In a certain brief interview, she gave him to understand, not by assertion, but by insinuation no whit less untrue, that I had shown a marked dislike to him.
More still,—when she received her dismissal from Mrs. Romilly, she took a further step. She sent a brief note to Arthur to reach him at The Park, briefly warning him as a friend—a friend!!—that if he wished to consult his own interests and peace of mind, he would keep out of my way.
"I don't know what he thought of me. I think I must have been mad,—such a wild thing to do," she wrote. "He never answered my note or took any notice of it. But it took effect: and that was all I cared for. I had my revenge,—and I wanted nothing else.
"It is of no use to ask if you can possibly ever forget all this; for I know you can't. I could not in your place. I will never never be untruthful again,—but that can't alter what I have done to you. It is impossible that you should get over it."
And at the moment my heart cried out assent to the impossibility.
For he had come indeed to seek me once: and a second time we might have met; and twice she had driven him away.
Then at length I reached the mention of her more recent letter to Maggie, in which was contained the news of his engagement.
"I was so glad to have it to tell," she wrote, "that I would not ask any particulars,—I wouldn't even try to find out if it was true. I was not really sure. It was just told as a piece of gossip, and I knew there might be some mistake. I was not really sure. But I wrote to Maggie directly, and I have never heard any more. I do not even know where Captain Lenox is now. I think I should have heard if it were not true, and I am afraid it is. So I can do nothing at all to undo the past: and that makes me sure that I must not expect you ever to be friends with me again. Only for the sake of Jeannie, and because of my feeling that she will die, if I do not—I must tell you all."
I had not noticed before those words following the others,—fearing it was, after all, true.
It did seem to me too much—too great a wrong! I must have sat long, half unconscious of my own position, clasping the letter tightly between both hands. For a while I could not think,—I could only feel. The knowledge that a year ago he had still cared, touched me very keenly, with a mingling, of sweet and bitter. But the "might have been," and the "was not,"—and the sense of the great life-loss, the loneliness, the sadness to come,—all through her! How could I forgive?
The stony hardness broke up at last, and tears fell in a shower. I have not wept so freely for years, I think. And when that came to an end, the bitterness seemed gone. I could once more say,—"His will—not mine."