"I never thought to have fallen so low as this," I said, sternly confronting him. "Has there been anything in me to lead you to think that I could be false to my marriage vow? Do you suppose that Ronald's desertion can make me forget my duty to God and myself?"
"You are absolved from all vows," he cried, hastily. "Listen to me, Mrs. Hepburne, I entreat you!"
"I have already listened too long. You came here, supposing that the deserted wife would be an easy victim. Well, you are quickly undeceived. Villain—traitor—tempter—I am ready to go to my grave; but I will never stir one step from this house with you!"
The glow had faded out of his face, leaving it as white as death. He had played his last card, and he would never begin the game again. A weaker man would have lingered and tried to move me; but William Greystock knew that mine were no idle words.
In another moment the door had opened and shut, and I was delivered from his evil presence. Even in that hour of intense anguish, I found strength enough to thank God that he was gone.
But Ronald—my Ronald, whom I still loved with all the devotion of true womanhood and wifehood! That man, evil as he was, had spoken truth in saying that Ronald was utterly lost to me. The note that I still clasped tightly in my fingers was a proof of his cruel infidelity. I knew Ida Lorimer's handwriting; I had seen notes written by her to Marian Bailey; it was a peculiar hand, and I should have recognised it anywhere. There was not, in this case, the faintest possibility of a deception.
As the door closed, I had sunk exhausted on the sofa; but now I rose, gaining fictitious strength from the resolution that I had rapidly formed. I would go away—away from London—back to my old home, and strive to earn a humble living among the people who had known me from my childhood.
But before my plan was put into execution, there were certain things that must be done. Nurse had gone out soon after luncheon, and there was no one in the house who would take any notice of my doings. It was a positive relief to feel that my faithful old friend was absent; I dreaded any influence that might be exerted to turn me from my purpose.
Although my temples ached and burned, and every pulse in my body throbbed violently, I carried on my preparations with unnatural calmness. First I filled my hand-bag with some indispensable things, assured myself that I had money enough for immediate wants, and then sat down to write my farewell to my husband.
But this was the hardest part of my task. I wrote a line, and then paused, and let my glance wander round the room, until memories came thronging upon me thick and fast. Was there no way that might lead us back into our happy past? Must I go onward, along this terrible road to which an inexorable hand was pointing? For a moment or two I wavered in my purpose, and then I remembered Ida's letter. It was not I who was leaving Ronald, he had already left me.