“But not by her!” he cried, taking her up quickly. “Not by her act!” he repeated sternly, “or with her will! And what has she done that I should forgive? I, whose life she blighted, whose pride she stabbed, whose hopes she crushed? Whom she left solitary, wifeless, childless through the years of my strength, the years that she cannot, that no one can give back to me? Through the long summer days that were a weariness, and the dark winter days that were a torpor? Yet—yet I could forgive her, Lady Lansdowne, I could forgive her, I do forgive her that!”
“Sir Robert!”
“That, all that!” he continued, with a gesture and in a tone of bitterness which harmonised but ill with the words he uttered. “All that she ever did amiss to me I forgive her. But—but the child’s wrong, never! Had she relented indeed, at the last, had she of her own motion, of her own free will given me back my daughter, had she repented and undone the wrong, then—but no matter! she did not! She did not one,” he repeated with agitation, “she did not any of these things. And I ask, what has she done that I should forgive her?”
She did not answer him at once, and when she did it was in a tone so low as to be barely audible.
“I cannot answer that,” she said. “But is it the only question? Is there not another question, Sir Robert—not what she has done, or left undone, but what you—forgive me and bear with me—have left undone, or done amiss? Are you—you clear of all spot or trespass, innocent of all blame or erring? When she came to you a young girl, a young bride—and, oh, I remember her, the sunshine was not brighter, she was a child of air rather than of earth, so fair and heedless, so capricious, and yet so innocent!—did you in the first days never lose patience? Never fail to make allowance? Never preach when wisdom would have smiled, never look grave when she longed for lightness, never scold when it had been better to laugh? Did you never forget that she was a score of years younger than you, and a hundred years more frivolous? Or”—Lady Lansdowne’s tone was a mere whisper now—“if you are clear of all offence against her, are you clear of all offence against any, of all trespass? Have you no need to be forgiven, no need, no——”
Her voice died away into silence. She left the appeal unfinished.
Sir Robert paced the room. And other scenes than those on which he had taught himself to brood, other days than those later days of wasted summers and solitary winters, of dulness and decay, rose to his memory. Sombre moods by which it had pleased him—at what a cost!—to make his displeasure known. Sarcastic words, warrant for the facile retort that followed, curt judgments and ill-timed reproofs; and always the sense of outraged dignity to freeze the manner and embitter the tone.
So much, so much which he had forgotten came back to him as he walked the room with averted face! While Lady Lansdowne waited with her hand on the bell. Minutes were passing, minutes; who knew how precious they might be? And with them was passing his opportunity.
He spoke at last. “I will see her,” he said huskily.
And on that Lady Lansdowne performed a last act of kindness. She said nothing, bestowed no thanks. But when Mary entered—pale, yet with that composure which love teaches the least experienced—she was gone. Nor as she drove in all the pomp of her liveries and outriders through Bath, through Corsham, through Chippenham, did those who ran out to watch my lady’s four greys go by, see her face as the face of an angel. But Lady Louisa, flying down the steps to meet her—four at a time and hoidenishly—was taken to her arms, unscolded; and knew by instinct that this was the time to pet and be petted, to confess and be forgiven, and to learn in the stillness of her mother’s room those thrilling lessons of life, which her governess had not imparted, nor Mrs. Fairchild approved.