She rehearsed the whole matter, declared that I was an angel, and the house a palace. It was not only unreasonable, but cruel and barbarous, for my wife to refuse to share my lot. Thus spake Biddy, and I endorsed her sentiments. When I had finished my dinner I wrote a brief note to Lilian, declining to see her again, until we could meet in “our own house.” Biddy was a zealous messenger. She was instructed to deliver it without any words, and without answering any questions, for I was afraid she would take the matter into her own hands, and complicate the difficulty by attempting to fight my battle for me.
An hour later came the reply to my note. Lilian wrote that she was “quite indisposed,” and unable to leave the house that day. She wished to see me very much, and begged me not to deny her this favor. Perhaps she was sick. So was I—sick at heart. It would not be strange if the intense excitement attending this affair had made her ill; it had made me so. But I knew she was not so ill that she could not leave the house. She had delivered her own letter in the forenoon when she knew I was at the bank. Yet, if I did not see her when she was sick, it would make the story tell with damaging effect upon me. I decided to see her at once—to see her as my sick wife, and not to make terms in the quarrel.
In five minutes I rang the bell at the door of Mr. Oliphant’s house. It was opened as usual by Mrs. Oliphant. A smile of triumph played upon her face as she stood aside to permit me to pass into the hall.
“I am glad you have concluded to come, Paley,” said she.
This remark indicated that she was already in possession of the contents of my last note; in fact that she, and not Lilian, was fighting the battle.
“Is Lilian sick?” I inquired.
“She is not very well.”
“I will go up and see her.”
I went up.