“No, Benson. We are going away from him. Mr. Vansittart and I have parted for ever. Please don’t speak of it to any one downstairs. I want to avoid all talk and scandal. I tell you because you are going with me. You will share in my new life—if you like to go.”
“I would go to the end of the world with you, ma’am. But, dear, dear, dear, to think that you and Mr. Vansittart can be parted—you who have been so happy together, like children almost! It can only be a temporary misunderstanding. I am sure of that.”
“Benson, if you talk about my trouble I shall go alone. Can’t you understand that there are griefs that won’t bear to be spoken of? Mine is one of them. I am going abroad; I hardly know where as yet. To some quiet place in Brittany or Normandy most likely, where I can just exist.”
“Oh, my dear young lady, you will kill yourself with grief,” sobbed Benson, as she poured out tea for her mistress.
While Benson was packing, with all the dexterity and method of an accomplished packer, Eve was employed in writing the most difficult letter she had ever written in her life.
She was writing to her husband’s mother, the woman who had received her at first reluctantly, but afterwards with motherly affection; the woman who had surrendered the son she adored to the wife he had chosen for himself, and who looked to that wife for the happiness of her son’s future years. Penniless, the daughter of a disreputable father, with no social surroundings or family influence to recommend her, she had been accepted by Jack Vansittart’s relations; petted and praised by his sister; lovingly cherished by his mother; and for recompense of their trust in her what was she going to give them?
She was going to spoil her husband’s life in the heyday of youth and love; to leave him bound in wedlock and yet companionless; with a wife and no wife. He could not divorce her; she could not divorce him. His sin was not of the kind which breaks marriage bonds.
What could she say to her mother-in-law which could in any manner explain or justify the parting of husband and wife who until yesterday had been living together in seemingly happiest union? There was no explanation, no justification possible. The mystery of those two broken lives must remain for ever dark to their kindred and the world.
“My husband and I have agreed to part, and our parting must needs be for a lifetime,” she wrote. “We can tell no one our reasons, not even you, mother, who of all people have the strongest right to question us. Unfaithfulness or lessening love has nothing to do with our separation. I never loved my husband better than I love him now; or, at least, I never knew the strength of my love for him so well as I know it now. What must be must be. It is Fate, and not our own will, that divides us. Wherever he may go my heart will go with him. Think of me with indulgence if you can; pity me if you can, for I have direst need of your pity.”
She said nothing about her destination. She had not made up her mind yet where she was to go. She sat for an hour or more turning the leaves of the Continental time-table; now thinking she would go by Ostend, and to the Ardennes; and then again deciding upon Brittany. It mattered nothing to her where she went; all places were alike, except for her desire to avoid the people she knew.