“His death?” cried Christine with dilated eyes. “What do you mean? I had heard nothing.”
“Oh you had not seen it in the papers? Yes, he died three days ago from an over-dose of chloral—it was brought in as ‘death by misadventure.’ I do not envy you your feelings at this moment. It was a sad day for him when he first saw you, for him and for my poor daughter.”
Christine did not speak a word. She was horror-struck by the news so abruptly told her; it was no time to assert her own blamelessness, nay she could pardon the poor grief-stricken woman for reproaching her so bitterly, for insulting her by such cruel, false imputations. The admirer whose love letters had so greatly annoyed her, whose infatuation had for some time past been difficult to baffle, had been driven out of his senses by his unhappy and overmastering passion, and had died leaving the girl who had loved him to her desolate sorrow.
Had Mrs. Bouvery been less hard and bitter, Christine could have opened her heart to her, and made her understand how distorted a view of the case she had taken; as it was they parted almost in silence and she could only resolve to find out a little more about the daughter and if possible to write to her later on.
But for many days after that the story haunted her and made her miserable. Afterwards too, in her depression, the thought of Mrs. Bouvery’s cruel words returned to her.
“Had I not been a solitary woman she would never have dared to attack me like that,” she reflected with tears in her eyes. “A woman without a protector is at the mercy of anyone who chooses to torment her. Were I not worse than widowed, Lord Rosscourt and men of his type would be unable to persecute me with attentions that are insults. They would not dare to send me letters which one can hardly glance at without feeling defiled.”
It happened that among her best and most trusted friends was a certain literary man named Conway Sartoris. She had known him and the sensible middle-aged sister who kept house for him for the last ten years, and they had been the first to discern how very miserable was her married life. During the difficult years that followed her separation their entirely unaltered friendship had been a great comfort to her. Conway Sartoris was not only a brilliant writer and an advanced thinker, but a most delightful companion, full of dry humour, and shrewd common sense; while his sister had a genuine affection for Christine and always gave her a warm welcome at their pretty old-fashioned house in Westminster. She was dining with them on the following Sunday and found it a great relief to tell them of the tragedy with which so unwittingly she had become connected, and of Mrs. Bouvery’s interview.
Alas! in seeking comfort she only met with fresh trouble. For the next evening on her return from the theatre she found a long letter from Conway Sartoris in which he frankly admitted that his friendship had some time ago deepened into love, that he was sure her life would always be difficult and perilous without a protector, and that he would do his utmost to make her happy. In blank dismay Christine read his proposal that they should enter into a union which would virtually be a marriage; he quoted instances in which such unions had been after a time condoned by society and had proved eminently happy, and he argued very plausibly that the best way to bring about a speedy reform of the present unjust law under which she suffered was to add another instance to the cases in which it had been deliberately and conscientiously broken.
His pleading, as far as he himself was concerned, proved of course quite useless. Christine could only write in reply that her friendship and respect for him must always remain unaltered, but that her heart was still with the lover of her youth—the man who through her own weakness and ambition had been so cruelly sacrificed years ago.
To this she received a very straightforward and kindly answer, and Conway Sartoris entreated her not to allow what had passed in any way to affect their friendship. But this was more easily said than done. His avowal had put an end to the perfect ease and rest of their intercourse and she felt more than ever alone in the world.