Her aunt had always said one should keep in the sphere of life into which one was born, and now the justice of this saying was plain; nothing could be plainer. If he had not come into this thing, if his book had been a success while he was still simple Mr. Cheyne, and if he had got on as a writer, and became famous and rich, she would willingly share his triumph and prosperity with him. In that case all would come gently, softly. Even if he had leaped into fame and fortune it would be no more than they had been dreaming about, hoping for. But in the present case an intolerable burden had been thrust upon her shoulders. She could not, she would not, bear it.
No. She would never marry. Never. She could never marry anyone but him, and now he had been taken from her as much as though the grave had opened and swallowed him. She should only be in his way. He had always been heir to the honours which had now come upon him, and no doubt her aunt had always been right in saying that people were born to high state, although at their birth, and for some time after, it might seem they had been intended for humbler places. Was not the present a case in point? Here was he perfectly at his ease about the new position into which he had come, to which he had been born, but of which he knew nothing until a few days ago. Here was she overwhelmed, appalled by the mere thought of the honours and responsibilities. Why? Why was she so frightened by the phantoms of things which he took as easily as the ordinary events of everyday life? Because he had been born to them, and she had not. Nothing could be plainer. Ah, nothing!
No, she would never marry anyone now. He should marry; marry a lady born; marry one whose whole life had been spent among such things as were to surround him all the days of his life. He should marry someone who was not only accustomed to such things, but who expected their presence always, and would feel uncomfortable if they were withdrawn from her. He should marry such a wife and be happy, and she herself would be happy, knowing she had done her duty by him in refusing to marry him.
Her duty, ay; but what of her love?
Then she threw herself on her bed and sobbed passionately.
Her love! Was all her love for him to count as nothing in this bitter case? Were all her hopes and dreams to vanish? She had been faithful to him with her whole nature; she would be faithful to him until her death. But had the end of all come so soon? So soon, that the end had come while she was only picturing to herself the beginning? Had the love-chambers of her heart to be locked for ever upon merely an image? Were all the sweet thoughts of the future which used to haunt her to fade away for ever? Should she never minister to him, or cheer him, or help him? Of old he had said she should read his proofs to him, for the ear is quicker to catch an error or an unhappy phrase than the writer's eyes. Should she not share his troubles and hear his plans? She had a little money, and he was able to make a little. In the old days their united incomes seemed enough for a quiet pair to start on. Now he would hardly miss their joint incomes multiplied a hundred times. All was over with her. Come, night and darkness! Come, oh grave, for life was over!
Then for a long time she lay and sobbed as though her heart would break. No thoughts were clearly defined to her. She simply felt the great woe around her like a choking mist. There was hope nowhere. Her life was over. There was nothing for her to do.
Nothing!
Ah, yes, there was one thing. One last thing.
The consciousness that something remained for her to do roused her, and she got up and bathed her flushed, miserable face, and took down her little writing-case from its place on the shelf, and opened it on the dressing-table.