“No wonder! You were quite right to leave him, and, if you had been wise, you would never have come back to the brute.”
“Do you think so? Now I think I was quite wrong. Even if I could not have loved him, it would have been safer to stay with him, safer for him and for me.”
“Safer for you!”
“Yes, yes. I thought I was so strong, so hard, that I could do without affection altogether—especially as affection could, since my foolish marriage, only mean Harry’s. And I was foolish and cared for him too little to ask myself whether he could do without it as well.”
“He had shown that he didn’t deserve yours, at all events. If you had stayed at the Grange, I think you might have been happy, Annie; but it would have been thanks to your husband’s family, and not to him. You see, Lilian was just going to be married, and my mother would soon have warmed to you when her other daughter was gone; and, if Harry had not changed his tone, I would have packed him off somewhere, and then you would have been surrounded by nothing but worshipers. And, if you had liked the Grange better in those circumstances, my dear child, I don’t think any one could have blamed you.”
“I think they would, though. You see, my fault all through my married life has been that I looked upon my husband as a contemptible tyrant to be given way to or avoided as the case might be, never as a reasonable being whose opinions and feelings were to be considered for their own sake.”
“But you see he has proved that they are not worth considering. I own to you that, when he was getting better, and he seemed never happy when you were out of his sight, and you went on laughing and talking with any of us rather than with him, and treated him like a cross, spoiled child, to be given way to and coaxed, while he seemed always longing and trying to be something more to you—it did seem to me sometimes that it was rather rough on Harry; but now I see you were quite right, and it was a good thing you did not get fond of such a weathercock. And then, when he rushed up to town red-hot to see you, and found you all dull and solitary——”
“But he didn’t find me dull and solitary—that is what made him angry,” said Annie, blushing. “He found an actor here whom—whom I had grown fond of when I was on tour. It was partly that I might forget him that I went to nurse Harry when he was ill,” she said, hurriedly. “He used to come and see me here after I left the Grange this last time. I told him I could never marry him; but—but I did not tell him I was married already; and somehow Harry guessed that, and made me half-confess it; and then, instead of bullying me and reproaching me now that he really had something to complain of, he took me to the Bingham Hotel, and was so sweet and kind to me that I—I really think, if he had stayed with me, I should have grown very fond of him. So you see, George, I am not a martyr, and, if he has treated me badly, it is no more than I deserve.”
She spoke in a very sad, quiet voice, with all the bright ring gone out of it; and George thought, as he watched her eyes fixed steadily before her, and her lips quivering a little in spite of herself, that, if her truant husband could see her now, he would realize how foolish he had been to expect that he could neglect such a pretty little wife without some more discriminating person’s trying to console her.
“Well, now you must forget all about a brute who could take away your jewelry to give to another woman. And of course, it would not be right to see any more of the other man—the actor. But I will come and see you as often as you like, and take you out, and have tea with you and luncheon with you whenever you feel dull; I will come and live nearer this way—that will be the best plan—and then you can send for me whenever you want me,” said George, benevolently.