Quick to feel, Meadowes was feeling a hundred conflicting sensations at that moment. But first of all he must quiet Anne.
‘Come, Anne,’ he said, ‘you are tired and fanciful. ’Tis time you were gone to bed, and by the morning you will have forgot the storm that scares you now. Ah, I understand altogether, Anne; aye, and feel for you too. But these things are better left alone, it but makes them harder to speak of them.’
‘Maybe, maybe,’ said Anne, rising to put a fresh candle in the candlestick. She had appealed to ‘Dick’ in vain, she thought, and would not attempt to make him understand.
‘I have some letters to write,’ said Meadowes, dismissing the subject; ‘I shall sit up and finish them.’
When Anne had gone, however, there, was not much letter-writing done. Meadowes sat and looked into the fire, coming to several conclusions. Well, here was the end of his amour; up to this time he had been quite content with Anne, delighted with her; but now—he simply could not stand this. If she was going to be always thinking about Sebastian Shepley, and even mentioning him, it was high time that the connection between himself and her was at an end. Meadowes, who was a very fastidious man, shuddered at the whole situation. ‘Horrible; truly ’twas in Providence I did not marry her,’ he said. Yet he had quite enough of conscience to make it a difficult matter for him to break with Anne. He dreaded beyond measure her anger when she found herself to have been so duped. It was indeed almost impossible to contemplate telling her. How would it best be done? Offer her money? Anne would never consider that a recompense. Just leave her? ‘Even I am not bad enough for that!’ Trust to time? Time would possibly make matters worse. Yet after hours of thought on the subject this last and very lame conclusion was the one which Meadowes finally adopted. He resolved not to see so much of her now and—to wait.
‘A plague upon Sebastian Shepley, and a plague upon Constancy and Love and all the Virtues!’ he said as he rose from his chair at last; ‘and equally a plague upon Richard Meadowes, and Treachery and Passion and all the Vices,’ he added, as he stood looking down at the last embers of the wood-fire that glowed on the hearth. He gave an angry kick to the red ashes with the toe of his riding-boot that sent a shower of scarlet sparks up into the air; they fell down a moment later in soft grey ash, and the fire was out.
‘The end of all hot fires,’ said Meadowes, as he groped his way across to the door.
CHAPTER VI
‘Business,’ Meadowes explained to Anne a few days after this, ‘was taking him out of London.’ His absence, too, might be somewhat prolonged. He left ample means with his friend Mr. Prior (‘the parson who wedded us, Anne’), and these moneys were to be forwarded by him to Anne at regular intervals; she would want for nothing. Anne took the news quietly, as was her way, and hoped his business might delay ‘Dick’ a shorter time than he anticipated.
Meadowes, however, knew his own mind now, and was quite decided as to the length of time he would be absent from Anne. In the spring a child would be born to them, and after that he would come and tell her everything; till then it might be brutal to disturb her present peace of mind. But after the event it must be done, and the sooner the better. This had been his ultimate decision.