Everything seemed to be going on well and happily at home, and I was in the full enjoyment of my fool's paradise, when I received a shock which almost turned the current of my blood. It took place on a day when I had been occasioned much annoyance by the circumstance of my father-in-law drawing upon me, without my permission, for a sum of money which was of consequence to me. It was not the first time he had done this, and I had paid his drafts with but slight reluctance, for they were for small amounts. But the amount of the present bill was serious, and it came at an inconvenient time. I was so much annoyed that, knowing Mr. Glaive to be at my house spending the evening, I determined not to go home until late, for fear that angry words might pass between us in the presence of Frances. So I sent a note to my wife, saying that business detained me at the office; and I idled away the time until ten o'clock, when I walked slowly home. My wife was not in the usual room in which we sat of an evening, and I went to a little room of which she was very fond, and which she called her sanctuary. I heard voices there, hers and her cousin Ralph's, and the words that he was addressing to her arrested my steps. I was guilty then of the first mean action in my life--I listened. What I heard I cannot here repeat, but I heard enough to know that I had been cheated and cajoled. I did not wait for the end, but I stole away with a desolate heart. My dream was over, and I was awake again, with a desolate heart, and with all my old opinions and old convictions at work within me in stronger force than ever.
I said nothing; certain as I was of the ugly bitter truth, I resolved to be still more certain of it, not from my own impressions, but from outward evidence. I discovered to my astonishment that my wife's vanity, her fondness for display, her love of the admiration of men, her frivolity, her flirtations with her cousin Ralph, and my own ridiculous infatuation and blindness were matters of common conversation. Fool that I was to believe in goodness! I cast aside all weakness, and resolved never to be deceived again. My heart was like a withered leaf; and all the foolish tenderness of my nature died an unredeemable death. Towards one person, and one alone, did I entertain any feeling of kindness; that was the woman who had solicited my help, and who had known the poor lost girl-friend of my younger days. I was sick almost to death of my home; the sight of my wife's fair face was unutterably painful to me; I was sick of the place in which I had been worldly prosperous. I yearned to fly from it, and to find myself again among strangers. The events that brought about the accomplishment of this desire came quickly. Some of the speculations I had entered into turned out badly; I could have saved myself from loss had I exercised my usual forethought; but I was reckless and despairing, and it was almost with a feeling of joy that I found, upon a careful examination of my affairs, that I had barely enough to settle with my creditors. I called them together secretly, letting neither my wife nor Mr. Glaive know of my position. I enjoined secrecy upon those to whom I was indebted, and made over to them everything I possessed in the world. Upon that very day Mr. Glaive took me to task for my treatment of his daughter, for my neglect of her. I listened to him calmly, and told him I had good and sufficient reasons for my conduct. It was an angry interview, and I ended it abruptly upon his saying that his daughter's happiness would have been more assured if he had given her to one who was more suitable to her. That same night a meeting of another description took place between Ralph and myself. He was talking of his pretty cousin in public, and of me in offensive terms. I have always regretted that I took notice of him on that occasion, for he was in liquor; but I was not master of myself. I left him after hot words had passed between us, and went to my office. He sought me there, and continued the quarrel, and boasted to my face that my wife loved him, and would have married him but for my stepping between them.
'You fool,' he said scornfully; you bought her!'
It was a bitter truth. Had I been a poor man, Frances Glaive would never have become my wife. But when he said that it was a bargain between me and her father, I thrust him from the office, and shut the door in his face. Everything was clear to me now, and I looked with shame and mortification upon my childish folly; but I was justly punished for it. I made my arrangements for departure, for I resolved never to live with my wife again, never even to see her, for fear that her fair false face should turn my senses again. The news of my failure must soon become known, and I did not intend to remain a day after its announcement. I wrote a letter to my wife, telling her that I had discovered all, and that I could no longer live with her. I told her that I was ruined, and that I was going to London to bury myself in a locality where there was the least possibility of my becoming known, and that it was useless her seeking me or sending to me, after the shame and disgrace she had brought upon me. 'If,' I concluded, 'I could make you a free woman, so that you might marry the man you love, I would willingly lay down my life; but it cannot be done. The only and best reparation I can offer is to promise, as I do now most faithfully, to wipe you out of my heart, so that you may be free from me for ever.' I had some small store of money by me, half of which I enclosed in the letter. I knew that she was in no fear of want, and that she would find a home if she wanted it in her father's house. Before I left the town I went to see the woman I had befriended, and to bid her farewell; she was earning her living by needlework. I gave her some of the money I had left, and I might have been tempted to believe, if I could have believed in anything good, that she at least was grateful to me for the assistance I had rendered her. When I came out of the house in which she lived, I saw Mr. Glaive and Ralph, arm-in-arm, on the opposite side of the way. I avoided them, and the next morning I shook the dust from my feet, and started for London. I never saw them again. I came to this part of London, where there was the least chance of my being discovered; shortly afterwards I learnt that this business was for sale, and I found I had just sufficient money to purchase it. You know now, thus far, the leading incidents of my life, and that its crowning sorrow and bitterness arose from my senseless worship of a vain, frivolous, and beautiful woman. I have only a few words to add, and they refer to Jessie.
I had no knowledge whatever of her, but on the first night of her arrival something in her face, something in her ways, reminded me of my wife. On the following morning she gave me a letter. It was from my wife, and was dated six years ago. How she discovered my address I cannot tell. It was to the effect that I should read it when she was dead, and it asked me simply to give a home to the friendless child who presented it. You can understand the effect it had upon me; questioning Jessie privately, I learned from her that she was indeed friendless and an orphan. I ascertained the place she came from, and was relieved to know that it was not the town in which I had been married. She had been stopping at an ordinary lodging-house, and I wrote to the address she gave me, but received no answer. In the mean time I feared that the quiet routine of the life I had led, and which suited me, was likely to be interrupted by the introduction into the house of another inmate. I resolved to take Jessie back to the friends she had been stopping with before she came here, and to arrange for her residence with them, undertaking to pay the expenses of her living, although, as you are aware, I could ill afford it. On the morning I took Jessie away, I gave her to understand that she would not return; but when I reached the place I found that her friends had left; I was told they had emigrated, and I made sure of the fact. It does not come within the scope of what I intended to relate to you to state why I was absent from home longer than I anticipated, nor what consideration influenced me in bringing Jessie back with me. But it is pertinent to say that I see in her the same qualities, the same frivolities and vanities which I know existed in my wife, and which entailed upon me the most bitter sorrow it has ever fallen to the lot of man to suffer. She is here, however, for good or for ill; if it turn out for good, it will be due to but one influence.
I have nothing more to add except to exact from you the condition that not one word of what I have said shall ever be told to Jessie.
[CHAPTER XXI.]
I RECEIVE AN INVITATION.
Thus abruptly uncle Bryan concluded his story. Some parts of it had moved me very deeply with sympathy for him; but the latter part, where he spoke of Jessie in such a strangely unjust and inexplicable manner, filled me with indignation. I had no time, however, to think about it, for almost immediately upon the conclusion of his story, Jessie came home, flushed and radiant, from her visit to the Wests. Our grave faces checked her exuberant spirits, and, looking from one to another, she sought for an explanation.
'Are you angry with me for going out?' she asked, divining that she was the cause of all this seriousness.