Oh no! She was going with some friend of her husband. I told her that, if Arthur was ever persuaded or even allowed to stay up after midnight, one paid for it next day... She asked if I would not wait with her while she dressed, but I was glad to escape while the maid was still in the room. The parting, had we been by ourselves, must inevitably have been difficult. As it was, we just shook hands...
I honestly cannot tell you whether I expected to hear anything more. I did not know what to think and was trying to keep my mind a blank... She came next day, when Arthur was out; it was pleasant to feel that she knew more of his movements than I did! We—my maid and I—were upstairs, looking through Arthur's clothes before packing them to go abroad with him. I sent the maid out of the room and asked if Mrs. Templedown would mind coming up to me. And, when she came, I added practice to theory. Until you do it, you're hardly conscious of it; but you cannot be a man's wife for thirty-two years without finding out thirty-two thousand little peculiarities about him. I had spoken about the winter underclothing already... I gave her the prescription for his tonic and told her where to have it made up and when he must be forced to take it—the symptoms, danger-signals... My dear, I talk frankly to you and I sometimes fear that you must think me terribly sordid, but truly honestly, if one neglects small things, one neglects everything. You may fancy that there is little difference between two shillings and half-a-crown on a bottle of medicine, but, when you take the medicine for half the year and multiply the difference by twenty-six,—thirteen shillings! Multiply that one item of medicine by half a hundred things... I am not very enthusiastically supported; at dinner it is always "Why don't we ever have this or that?," when this or that is out of season and prohibitive; even Will rounded on me once and said that his poor old mother had reduced meanness to a fine art. I had to bite my lip! From Will... I told poor little Mrs. Templedown everything; and, if you say that I failed in loyalty to Arthur, I can only answer that the end must justify the means and that I am content to be judged by results.
"And now," I said, "I can only wish you good luck. I am nothing to you, but, if you ever feel kindly disposed to a dull old woman, do your best for Arthur, keep him happy—for my sake. You are making a great experiment and taking a great risk; you, and you alone, can crown it with success. When you both ask me to divorce my husband, I shall take the necessary steps; but I shall do nothing hastily. Perhaps, when you have been with him for a time, you will find that the difficulties are greater than you anticipated—or, let me say, that success is harder of achievement than you hoped. I ask only one thing: do not force yourselves into an extremity from any false pride. Be candid with me, as I have been candid with you. Should you find only failure and the prospect of failure, recognize it boldly. Write to me. Say 'It has not turned out as we expected. Your husband is coming back to you.' I shall receive him without reproaches, I shall know nothing. He will find his favourite dinner, his chair and cigar, his book and 'night-cap', as he calls it... I shall be truly glad to see him back, but I look at you, with all your youth and beauty; I know that I must not keep him if you are his hope of happiness. Kiss me, dear child," I said, "and do better for him than I have been able to do."
A singular meeting! She stayed with me for nearly two hours longer. I won't say "not speaking a word", but I can say "not finishing a sentence." Bewildered... Then she went away, and I rang for my maid. I never heard from her again. On Thursday—the Thursday—Arthur found his suit-case and kit-bag packed and labelled in the hall. "I don't want all this," he said, "for one night." ... And he was back again in three days. I happen to know that he went alone and returned alone—and was alone in Paris...
I was talking about the diary, was I not? It is not cheerful reading, and much of it is dull. This entry in question: "Arthur returned from France tired and depressed, but very glad to be home again..." It does not mean much...
To any one else...
I am not crying! I am simply worn-out...! Oh, my dear, I am too old for this kind of thing, apart from the long agony of humiliation. Arthur must send me right away for a complete change. He can afford it now...
IX
LADY ANN SPENWORTH NARRATES AN EMBARRASSMENT AVERTED
Lady Ann (to a friend of proved discretion): When do I start, indeed? My dear, you are not very complimentary! We have been back nearly a week. That shews how you have deserted me! ... No, I never intended to be away for more than about a fortnight. You see, so long as this wild beast is at large, prowling about Morecambe and preparing to spring at any moment, I dare not leave Will unprotected. I really don't think I can add anything to what I've already told you; my boy himself is so very uncommunicative, and Arthur becomes alternately violent and morose when I beg in the humblest way for the least enlightenment. My reading of the position is that this "Molly Wanton" set her cap at Will and, when he refused to have anything to do with her, rounded on him until he threw up a first-rate appointment rather than stay another hour in Morecambe; then she stuffed her foolish father with lies until the man comes to this house like a demented creature and vows that my boy promised to marry his Molly.