When Meredith Vyner came into the drawing-room and found his wife senseless on the floor, he imagined she had been seized with a fit, for he was unaware of Marmaduke having been in the house. Mrs. Vyner availed herself of the supposition, and so escaped irritating inquiries; she just mentioned that she had been very much distressed and excited that morning, and that doubtless her fit had been greatly owing to it.
"And what distressed you, my love?"
"Oh, I cannot tell you."
"Yes; do dear, do tell me."
"Will you promise not to mention a word of it to Violet?"
"I will."
"Well, then, it was on her account. You know how I wished for a match between her and young Ashley? You know his audacious love for me? I tried to make him relinquish his foolish hopes—I tried to lead him to think of her. He scorned the idea—vowed he loved me and only me—and was so violent that I was obliged to order him to quit the house, and never to re-enter it. He left me in a great passion. It is a rupture for ever."
Instead of feeling in the least distressed at this rupture, Meredith Vyner could not conceal his joy. What cared he for Violet's sorrow—was not his rival got rid of?
He redoubled his attentions to his wife—now wholly his, he thought!—and felt that the great misery he had dreaded was now forever banished. When Violet came to him, therefore, to ask his permission to go down to her uncle, he gave it willingly, and without inquiry.
Marmaduke dismissed, how happy now would the house be! Mary would again become the sprightly, cajoling, attentive wife; she would again come into his study to hear him read aloud; would again interest herself in Horace. By the way, he had sadly neglected Horace of late; not a single emendation had been made; not a note written. That could not continue. He had no time to lose. He was no longer young. If age should creep on before he had finished that great work, what a loss to literature!