"How can you be so ridiculous, Wally!" said Caroline. "There is nothing that you would not believe."

"I hope that it may never be true in your case," said Wallachia.

A couple of days after this Miss Spalding found that it was absolutely necessary that she should explain the circ.u.mstances of her position to Nora. She had left Nora with the purpose of performing a very high-minded action, of sacrificing herself for the sake of her lover, of giving up all her golden prospects, and of becoming once again the bosom friend of Wallachia Petrie, with this simple consolation for her future life,--that she had refused to marry an English n.o.bleman because the English n.o.bleman's condition was unsuited to her. It would have been an episode in female life in which pride might be taken;--but all that was now changed. She had made her little attempt,--had made it, as she felt, in a very languid manner, and had found herself treated as a child for doing so. Of course she was happy in her ill success; of course she would have been broken-hearted had she succeeded. But, nevertheless, she was somewhat lowered in her own esteem, and it was necessary that she should acknowledge the truth to the friend whom she had consulted. A day or two had pa.s.sed before she found herself alone with Nora, but when she did so she confessed her failure at once.

"You told him all, then?" said Nora.

"Oh yes, I told him all. That is, I could not really tell him. When the moment came I had no words."

"And what did he say?"

"He had words enough. I never knew him to be eloquent before."

"He can speak out if he likes," said Nora.

"So I have found,--with a vengeance. n.o.body was ever so put down as I was. Don't you know that there are times when it does not seem to be worth your while to put out your strength against an adversary? So it was with him. He just told me that he was my master, and that I was to do as he bade me."

"And what did you say?"

"I promised to be a good girl," said Caroline, "and not to pretend to have any opinion of my own ever again. And so we kissed, and were friends."

"I dare say there was a kiss, my dear."

"Of course there was;--and he held me in his arms, and comforted me, and told me how to behave;--just as you would do a little girl. It's all over now, of course; and if there be a mistake, it is his fault.

I feel that all responsibility is gone from myself, and that for all the rest of my life I have to do just what he tells me."

"And what says the divine Wallachia?"

"Poor Wally! She says nothing, but she thinks that I am a castaway and a recreant. I am a recreant, I know;--but yet I think that I was right. I know I could not help myself."

"Of course you were right, my dear," said the sage Nora. "If you had the notion in your head, it was wise to get rid of it; but I knew how it would be when you spoke to him."

"You were not so weak when he came to you."

"That was altogether another thing. It was not arranged in heaven that I was to become his captive."

After that Wallachia Petrie never again tried her influence on her former friend, but admitted to herself that the evil was done, and that it could not be remedied. According to her theory of life, Caroline Spalding had been wrong, and weak,--had shewn herself to be comfort-loving and luxuriously-minded, had looked to get her happiness from soft effeminate pleasures rather than from rational work and the useful, independent exercise of her own intelligence.

In the privacy of her little chamber Wallachia Petrie shed,--not absolute tears,--but many tearful thoughts over her friend. It was to her a thing very terrible that the chosen one of her heart should prefer the career of an English lord's wife to that of an American citizeness, with all manner of capability for female voting, female speech-making, female poetising, and, perhaps, female political action before her. It was a thousand pities! "You may take a horse to water,"--said Wallachia to herself, thinking of the ever-freshly springing fountain of her own mind, at which Caroline Spalding would always have been made welcome freely to quench her thirst,--"but you cannot make him drink if he be not athirst." In the future she would have no friend. Never again would she subject herself to the disgrace of such a failure. But the sacrifice was to be made, and she knew that it was bootless to waste her words further on Caroline Spalding.

She left Florence before the wedding, and returned alone to the land of liberty. She wrote a letter to Caroline explaining her conduct, and Caroline Spalding shewed the letter to her husband,--as one that was both loving and eloquent.

"Very loving and very eloquent," he said. "But, nevertheless, one does think of sour grapes."

"There I am sure you wrong her," said Caroline.

CHAPTER Lx.x.xII.

MRS. FRENCH'S CARVING KNIFE.

During these days there were terrible doings at Exeter. Camilla had sworn that if Mr. Gibson did not come to, there should be a tragedy, and it appeared that she was inclined to keep her word. Immediately after the receipt of her letter from Mr. Gibson she had had an interview with that gentleman in his lodgings, and had asked him his intentions. He had taken measures to fortify himself against such an attack; but, whatever those measures were, Camilla had broken through them. She had stood before him as he sat in his arm-chair, and he had been dumb in her presence. It had perhaps been well for him that the eloquence of her indignation had been so great that she had hardly been able to pause a moment for a reply. "Will you take your letter back again?" she had said. "I should be wrong to do that," he had lisped out in reply, "because it is true. As a Christian minister I could not stand with you at the altar with a lie in my mouth."

In no other way did he attempt to excuse himself,--but that, twice repeated, filled up all the pause which she made for him.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Camilla's wrath.]

There never had been such a case before,--so impudent, so cruel, so gross, so uncalled for, so unmanly, so unnecessary, so unjustifiable, so d.a.m.nable,--so sure of eternal condemnation! All this she said to him with loud voice, and clenched fist, and starting eyes,--regardless utterly of any listeners on the stairs, or of outside pa.s.sers in the street. In very truth she was moved to a sublimity of indignation. Her low nature became nearly poetic under the wrong inflicted upon her. She was almost tempted to tear him with her hands, and inflict upon him at the moment some terrible vengeance which should be told of for ever in the annals of Exeter. A man so mean as he, so weak, so cowardly, one so little of a hero;--that he should dare to do it, and dare to sit there before her, and to say that he would do it! "Your gown shall be torn off your back, sir, and the very boys of Exeter shall drag you through the gutters!" To this threat he said nothing, but sat mute, hiding his face in his hands.

"And now tell me this, sir;--is there anything between you and Bella?" But there was no voice in reply. "Answer my question, sir.

I have a right to ask it." Still he said not a word. "Listen to me.

Sooner than that you and she should be man and wife, I would stab her! Yes, I would;--you poor, paltry, lying, cowardly creature!" She remained with him for more than half an hour, and then banged out of the room flashing back a look of scorn at him as she went. Martha, before that day was over, had learned the whole story from Mr.

Gibson's cook, and had told her mistress.

"I did not think he had so much spirit in him," was Miss Stanbury's answer. Throughout Exeter the great wonder arising from the crisis was the amount of spirit which had been displayed by Mr. Gibson.

When he was left alone he shook himself, and began to think that if there were danger that such interviews might occur frequently he had better leave Exeter for good. As he put his hand over his forehead, he declared to himself that a very little more of that kind of thing would kill him. When a couple of hours had pa.s.sed over his head he shook himself again, and sat down and wrote a letter to his intended mother-in-law.

I do not mean to complain [he said], G.o.d knows I have no right; but I cannot stand a repet.i.tion of what has occurred just now. If your younger daughter comes to see me again I must refuse to see her, and shall leave the town. I am ready to make what reparation may be possible for the mistake into which I have fallen.

T. G.

Mrs. French was no doubt much afraid of her younger daughter, but she was less afraid of her than were other people. Familiarity, they say, breeds contempt; and who can be so familiar with a child as its parent? She did not in her heart believe that Camilla would murder anybody, and she fully realised the conviction that, even after all that was come and gone, it would be better that one of her daughters should have a husband than that neither should be so blessed. If only Camilla could be got out of Exeter for a few months,--how good a thing it would be for them all! She had a brother in Gloucester,--if only he could be got to take Camilla for a few months! And then, too, she knew that if the true rights of her two daughters were strictly and impartially examined, Arabella's claim was much stronger than any that Camilla could put forward to the hand of Mr. Gibson.

"You must not go there again, Camilla," the mother said.

"I shall go whenever I please," replied the fury.

"Now, Camilla, we may as well understand each other. I will not have it done. If I am provoked, I will send to your uncle at Gloucester."

Now the uncle at Gloucester was a timber merchant, a man with protuberant eyes and a great square chin,--known to be a very stern man indeed, and not at all afraid of young women.

"What do I care for my uncle? My uncle would take my part."

"No, he would not. The truth is, Camilla, you interfered with Bella first."

"Mamma, how dare you say so!"

"You did, my dear. And these are the consequences."

"And you mean to say that she is to be Mrs. Gibson?"

"I say nothing about that. But I do not see why they shouldn't be married if their hearts are inclined to each other."

"I will die first!"