Her mind was resolutely fixed upon the line in life which she must follow, nor would she allow any room in it for regrets over the past or dread of the future. She had seen a good deal of Wallace during the past few days when he had called at St. Mary's Crescent. By Laline's request Mrs. Vandeleur had generally been present on these interviews, and Wallace had always been on his best behaviour, assiduously acting the part of a man of good and kindly impulse, whom weakness and neglect had caused to deviate from the straight path.
Yet, school himself though he might, here and there a look, a chance phrase, betrayed his real nature—selfish, cynical, and callous—and struck a chill fear into Laline's heart. That good existed in him she could not doubt, nor did he lack appreciation of goodness in others. And in yet another fact there lay hope for his future—he was unmistakably in love with his wife. Possibly his love, strong as it was, was of its nature ephemeral, too fitful and violent to last; but it was none the less certain that Wallace loved Laline, after his own fashion, with a jealous and exacting passion, stronger than he had ever yet felt for any woman.
Yet his love was very far from bringing happiness along with it. So far in life he had accustomed himself to despising the entire female sex, and the conviction that this woman, who was by law his property, was immeasurably above him, that only her religion and duty constrained her to tolerate him, that he might kill her pride and break her spirit, but that never could he hope to win the love she had so freely lavished upon his cousin, irritated him at times almost to madness.
He was her husband; she would follow him through the world, link her life to his broken fortunes, bear with his furious temper, his drunkenness, and his brutality, be proudly silent under his ill-usage, and remain throughout her whole existence faithful to him in word and deed, and yet he knew already that of her mind and heart he would never be master, that she would be kind to him, pitiful, and patient, but that her love he might not hope to gain.
Sometimes, after leaving Mrs. Vandeleur's little oak-panelled sitting-room, in the scented air and amid the weird accessories of which he felt strangely out of place, he would give way to a furious access of rage against his wife as he recalled her image, sitting there in her low chair by the fire facing Mrs. Vandeleur, and looking at him with those soft, searching dark eyes of hers. She was always kind to him; she listened to him with a great effort to appear interested in the unfolding of his plans for their future; but it was very difficult to lie to her, and sometimes an impotent rage against her kept him silent, lest he should break into curses against her cold quiet purity and aloofness from such a man as he.
His nerves were broken by the life he had led, and now and then he absolutely dreaded lest the mingled love and hate with which she inspired him might move him to strike the light out of that beautiful pale face of hers. Through all her gentleness he fancied he could read her dislike of him and the strain his presence inflicted upon her, and the thought stung his pride and self-love intolerably.
Thus the time had passed with him until the very day fixed for their departure from London. It had been arranged that Laline should call in a cab at her husband's rooms, and that they should proceed together to the station to catch the train for Liverpool. The arrangement was Laline's. She especially wished that Wallace should not come for her to St. Mary's Crescent. Between him and Clare there appeared always to be a kind of secret understanding, which puzzled and distressed Laline, who had no suspicion of the part Clare had played in the recent events of her life. Unpunctuality was one of Wallace's distinguishing characteristics, and, to guard against this, it had been arranged that Mrs. Wallace Armstrong should call with her luggage on the cab at nine o'clock, as the train for Liverpool left Euston Station at ten.
On the stroke of nine, therefore, a four-wheeled cab drew up at the door of Wallace's rooms in the dreary side street off the Strand. The elderly landlady opened the door so promptly that it was plain she had been on the watch, and her manner to Laline was very different from what it had been towards Clare Cavan on the occasion of that young lady's flying visit a fortnight before.
"Mr. Armstrong's things are all packed, ma'am, according to his orders. But Mr. Armstrong is not in just now. I expect him every minute. He went out about ten this morning and hasn't yet returned. But he expects you, ma'am. Please step inside and let me give you a cup of tea."