"Impossible," said Guy, gloomily, "quite impossible."
"How so?"
"It's easy enough explained! When I married my wife, I thought her coldness would wear off, but it did not. To all my love and tenderness, she was as cold as ice. Kind enough in a cold-blooded sort of way, but as far as any answering tenderness or feeling of sympathy, she might as well have been a statue. That was hard enough to bear, as you may imagine, but when the child was born it was much worse. She isn't a statue now, by any means, but her whole soul is wrapped up in the child. She's never away from him, she never stops talking about him, she lives in the nursery, and never comes near me. If I offer to caress her, she frowns and resents any display of affection. All her love, all her heart, is given to the child, and I've got to be content with cold looks, and about five minutes' conversation a day. I hardly ever see her, sometimes she doesn't even come to meals, and when I remonstrated with her, she turned on me in a cold fury, and asked me if I wanted her to neglect the child. What am I to do, Eustace? I can't force her to love me against her will. I can't keep her from the child. There seems nothing for me to do, but to be satisfied with the life I am leading now, and it's Hell, Eustace, Hell. It's a big word to describe a little thing, isn't it? The world would laugh at me if they heard me talk, but no one can understand it, unless they undergo it."
He spoke with great emotion, and although Eustace failed in a great measure to understand his deep feelings on the subject, he could not but see that his cousin had great cause to speak. A young man of ardent nature, to whom love is a necessity, finding himself tied to a woman who chilled every demonstration of affection, and lavished all her adoration on the child of which he was the father--it was truly a pitiable situation, and yet one at which the world would laugh, because the tragic elements therein were so simple.
Gartney listened in silence to the long speech, and saying nothing in reply, made his cousin have some luncheon, while he thought over the whole affair.
"I won't speak to Mrs. Veilsturm," he thought to himself, pouring out Guy a glass of wine, "if I can I'll bring them together again and then leave England for ever."
During the luncheon, he talked gaily enough to Errington, cheering him up by every means in his power, making up his mind in the meantime as to what was the best course to pursue.
When the meal was finished, he ordered Javelrack to bring round a horse, and, with Sir Guy, was soon trotting along the road on the way to Errington Hall.
"Now, listen to me, Guy," he said, when they were some distance on their journey. "I think you exaggerate a good deal of this thing. It's not half so bad as you make out. Alizon is a young mother, and you know they always adore their first-born to the exclusion of everything else. I don't think she is naturally of a cold nature, and when her first outburst of joy on the child is exhausted, she will, doubtless, give you that love which is your due, and which you so much need. But, in the meantime, it is foolish of you to remain at the Hall, as you will only work yourself up into a frenzy over nothing. Solitude is the worst thing in the world for a man in your condition, so the best thing you can do is to come up to town with me for a week or so."
"But I cannot leave Alizon alone," objected Errington in perplexity.