"My dear, the world does not see it in that light. She never was really his wife."
"She ought to have been," answered Christabel, resolutely, yet with quivering lips. "If he cared for her so much as to make himself the world's wonder for her sake he should have married her: a man should not play fast and loose with love."
"It is difficult for us to judge," said Mrs. Tregonell, believing herself moved by the very spirit of justice, "we are not women of the world—we cannot see this matter as the world sees it."
"God forbid that I should judge as the world judges," exclaimed Christabel, lifting her head for the first time since that story had been told her. "That would be a sorry end of your teaching. What ought I to do?"
"Your own heart must be the arbiter, Christabel. I made up my mind this afternoon that I would not seek to influence you one way or the other. Your own heart must decide."
"My own heart? No; my heart is too entirely his—too weakly, fondly, foolishly, devoted to him. No, I must think of something beyond my foolish love for him. His honour and mine are at stake. We must be true to ourselves, he and I. But I want to know what you think, Auntie. I want to know what you would have done in such a case. If, when you were engaged to his father, you had discovered that he had been within only a little while"—these last words were spoken with inexpressible pathos, as if here the heart-wound were deepest—"the lover of another woman—bound to her by ties which a man of honour should hold sacred—what would you have done? Would you have shut your eyes resolutely upon that past history? Would you have made up your mind to forget everything, and to try to be happy with him?"
"I don't know, Belle," Mrs. Tregonell answered, helplessly, very anxious to be true and conscientious, and, if she must needs be guide, to guide the girl aright through this perilous passage in her life. "It is so difficult at my age to know what one would have done in one's girlhood. The fires are all burnt out; the springs that moved one then are all broken. Judging now, with the dull deliberation of middle age, I should say it would be a dangerous thing for any girl to marry a man who had been notoriously devoted to another woman—that woman still living, still having power to charm him. How can you ever be secure of his love? how be sure that he would not be lured back to the old madness? These women are so full of craft—it is their profession to tempt men to destruction. You remember what the Bible says of such? 'They are more bitter than death: their feet go down to death: their steps take hold on hell."
"Don't, Auntie," faltered Christabel. "Yes, I understand. Yes, he would tire of me and go back to her very likely. I am not half so lovely, nor half so fascinating. Or, if he were true to honour and duty, he would regret her all his life. He would be always repenting that he had not broken down all barriers and married her. He would see her sometimes on the stage, or in the Park, and just the sight of her face flashing past him would spoil his happiness. Happiness," she repeated, bitterly, "what happiness? what peace could there be for either of us? knowing of that fatal love. I have decided, Auntie, I shall love Angus all the days of my life, but I will never marry him."
Mrs. Tregonell clasped the girl in her arms, and they wept together, one with the slow silent tears of life that was well-nigh worn out, the other with youth's passionate sobs—sobs that shook the slender frame.
"My beloved, you have chosen wisely and well," said the widow, her heart throbbing with new hopes—it was not of Angus Hamleigh's certain loss she thought, but of her son Leonard's probable gain—"you have chosen wisely. I do not believe that you could ever have been really happy with him. Your heart would have been consumed with jealous fears—suspicion would have haunted your life—that evil woman's influence would have darkened all your days."