“A widow,” he said, “you make up an idea to yourself that it’s something sacred. You are never to love, never to think of any one again. But all that is fiction—don’t interrupt me—it is mere fiction. You are living, and he is dead.”
“You force me,” she cried, “to betray myself. You force me—to tell you my secrets. You have no right to force my secret from me. Mr. Wradisley, every word you say to me is an offense. It is my own fault; but a man ought surely to be generous and take a woman’s word without compelling her in self defense—”
“I know by heart all that you can say in self-defense,” he cried, vehemently, “and you ought to be told that these are all fictions—sentimentalisms—never to be weighed against a true affection—a man’s love—and home and protection—both for yourself and your child.”
The young woman’s high spirit was aroused. “I will have no more of this,” she said. “I am quite able to protect myself and my child. Let me go—I will go, Mr. Wradisley. I do not call this love. I call it persecution. Not a word more.”
Mr. Wradisley was more astonished than words could say. He fell back, and allowed her to pass. He had thought, with a high hand, in the exercise of that superior position and judgment which everybody allowed him, to bring her to reason. Was it possible that she was not to be brought to reason? “I think,” he said, “Mrs. Nugent, that when you are calm and consider everything at your leisure you will feel—that I am justified.”
“You can never be justified in assuming that you know—another person’s position and feelings; which you don’t, and can’t know.”
“I argue from the general,” said Mr. Wradisley, with an air almost of meekness, “and when you think—when you take time to consider—”
“No time would make any difference,” she said, quickly; and then, for she was now free and going back again toward the lawn, her heart smote her. “Don’t bear me any malice,” she said. “I respect you very much; any woman might be proud—of your love”—her face gave a little twitch, whether toward laughing or crying it was difficult to tell—“but I couldn’t have given you mine in any circumstances, not if I had been—entirely free.”
“Which you are—from everything but false sentiment,” he said, doggedly.
But what did it matter?—he was following her out, her face was turned from him, her ears were deaf to his impressive words, as her eyes were turned from his looks, which were more impressive still. Mr. Wradisley had failed, and it was the first time for many years that he had done so; he had even forgotten that such a thing was possible. When they came, thus walking solemnly one behind the other, to the outer house where some of the other guests were lingering, Mrs. Nugent stopped to speak to some of them, to describe the new orchid. “It is the most uncanny thing I ever saw,” she said. And then Lady Dulham, the great lady of that side of the county, the person whom he most disliked, appealed to Mr. Wradisley to show her too the new wonder. It was perhaps on the whole the best way he could have got out of this false position. He offered the old lady his arm with a deeply wounded, hotly offended heart.