Chapter VI: The Trial

Sa pensée est un monde son cœur un abîme;
C'est ainsi qu'elle va, forte, de crime en crime
Bravant impunément et la peuple et la cour
Ne méritant que haine et n'inspirant qu'amour!
MAD. EMILE GIRARDIN.--_Cléopatre_.

Poor Meredith Vyner was tormented with jealousy. He had blindly credited his wife, when she told him that she sought to bring about a match between Marmaduke and Violet, and had rivalled her in his attentions to the bold suitor, who was to wed this imperious girl. But from time to time he had felt twinges of jealousy. It seemed to him that Marmaduke was a great deal too attentive to his wife. He dared not make any remark; but he observed it with pain. Now, that Violet was away, and he saw Marmaduke still more assiduous in his visits, saw him daily in the house, and closeted with his wife for hours together, his suspicions began to assume a more galling fixity.

He could not deceive himself respecting the dangerous attractions of his rival. He could not persuade himself that a man of his age had any strong hold of a young woman's affections. Indeed, his wife had recently too often reminded him of the difference of their ages, and made him feel too grateful for the slightest show of affection, for him to doubt the precariousness of his tenure. It was one of the weapons she used against him; she knew its value, and never allowed it to rust. Although, therefore, he adored her, was proud of her, was proud of even the slight degree of love she pretended to feel for him, he began to feel that the degree was but small; and this was perhaps the principal cause of his submissive spaniel-like adoration. Poor human nature!

If, however, the consciousness of the small return which his affection met with, made that affection greater, it also made his jealousy more poignant, and more easily alarmed. He never saw any one pay her the slightest attention without a qualm. He was jealous of old men, he was jealous of young men; he was jealous of fools, he was jealous of wits; he was even jealous of his daughters, because she showed them so much tenderness!

Judge, then, what he must have felt when he began to see clearly into the nature of Marmaduke's attention! The poor old pedant used to pace up and down his study, sometimes up and down the corridor, while Marmaduke was sitting alone with her in the drawing-room, or in her boudoir; never venturing to enter, lest his anxiety should be legible on his countenance, and counting the minutes till the tête-à-tête broke up.

Several times, while she was out in the carriage, did he open her escritoire, of which he had a duplicate key, and hurriedly read all the letters there locked up. But he found nothing that he could construe into an appearance of criminality. The notes from Marmaduke were friendly answers to invitations, for the most part, or trifling communications, in which no word of tenderness, no allusion to secrets, could give him the slightest uneasiness. Marmaduke had been too guarded ever to allow himself a suspicious phrase. Not that he feared Vyner, but because he knew the danger of letters.

These fruitless searches only threw the jealous husband into fresh perplexities, and made him doubt the justice of the suspicions which Marmaduke's manner invariably revived.

Nor was it Marmaduke's attentions which alone alarmed him. His wife's manner was greatly changed. She no longer came into his study that he might read aloud to her for an hour or two in the morning. She no longer interested herself in his Horatian labours. She no longer cajoled him, no longer petted him. She was fretful, capricious, abstracted. She threw his old age more frequently in his face. She began to talk sentimentally about "incompatibilities;" and to declaim about the necessity for "passion." The gay, little, sarcastic, worldly-wise woman changed into a fervent admirer of Petrarch, Byron, and Rousseau.

Symptoms not to be mistaken!

The truth is, Mrs. Vyner, always more in earnest than Marmaduke, had now so completely caught the feeling of the part she had assumed, that from feigning, it had passed into reality. She loved him. She even sighed over her lot in being wedded to another, and reproached herself for having been false to her first love.

What had she gained by her falsehood? Station and wealth; but with it a false and difficult position as stepmother to three girls; and an old, foolish, pedantic husband whom she mastered, but could not love. And what are wealth and station in comparison with affection?

The amount of the change which had taken place may be estimated by that one question.

Such being the disposition of the parties, it may seem strange that matters did not speedily come to a crisis. But neither the passion of these guilty lovers, nor the jealousy of the husband forced a crisis; and for this reason:--

Marmaduke had early committed a capital mistake; a mistake, I mean, in gallantry. Urged by the impetuosity of his nature, he had endeavoured to overcome her resistance by persuading her to be his. Now, a woman yields from excitement, not from persuasion: passion, not argument, is the instrument of her fall. In endeavouring to argue the point with her, he was always at a disadvantage, because his cause was so bad, and he forced her to bring forward good reasons for refusal. Having uttered these reasons she was forced to abide by them, not because they were right, but because she could not so glaringly contradict them by her acts.

To put the case to the reader's experience I would say, that many a time has he, the reader, been refused a kiss he was fool enough to ask for, which he might have had for the taking!

The consequence was, that Mrs. Vyner kept within the programme of Platonic love; and this she managed without exasperating Marmaduke beyond endurance. An adroit woman has a thousand ways of preserving herself, and Mrs. Vyner was exceedingly adroit.

Meanwhile, she indulged in her passion without troubling herself much about consequences. She was content with keeping Marmaduke her slave. The delight that gave her is indescribable. She was always inventing some new plan to assure herself of it.

One day he was seated with her in the boudoir, which I have not yet described, but which, as the temple where she received her devotees, merits a few words. It was exquisitely fitted up. To throw the proper light upon her blonde beauty, the furniture was of a pale blue; and the curtains which, in lieu of a door, separated the boudoir from the bed-room, were of blue velvet. The walls were painted: a light, elegant border of arabesque, and a centre piece of flowers on a light blue ground. A few statuettes, and some recherché knicknacks, were distributed with art about the room.

Dressed in a light peignoir, the deep rich lace trimmings of which only half concealed her dazzling bosom, she looked a most seductive syren in this retreat, and it is no wonder that Marmaduke's senses were captivated.

On that day, she was fretful. Never had he known her so exasperated against her husband, and against the wretched bondage in which she was held as wife to a man she could not love. To hear her talking about "incompatibilities," and the "degradation" of being linked to one man, while her heart was another's, you would have supposed she had been forced into the match, had been sold by some mercenary parent. From time to time, she would throw up her eyes and sighing exclaim,--

"No escape! to think there is no escape!"

Marmaduke could not comprehend this. He understood clearly enough that she never had loved Vyner; but why these bitter complaints at this moment?

The truth is, she was about to make a great, a wanton experiment of her power over him; she wished to see how far his passion had made him her blind and willing instrument; and she suddenly interrupted an eloquent speech of his by,--

"Of what use is protestation? You say you love me. You say that you would move heaven and earth to gain me; yet you do nothing: it is all talk."

"Do! What can I do?"

"Is it for me to tell you?" she said scornfully.

He looked at her wonderingly; but she had resumed her work and was silent.

"Abuse me for my stupidity," he said; "for upon my word, I do not understand you."

She shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.

"Will you not tell me?" he asked.

She took a skein of silk and said,--

"Hold this, while I wind it."

She fixed the skein on his hands, and began calmly winding, as if nothing whatever had been said. He waited a few moments expecting her to speak, but she gave no signs of intending to pursue the subject.

"Why will you not tell me what is in your thoughts at this moment?" he said.

"Contempt."

"For what?"

"For mere talkers."

"If you mean me, the contempt is undeserved. Tell me what it is that can be done, and it shall be done."

She continued to wind the silk, but refused to answer.

"Mary, dear Mary, tell me what you mean."

She kept her eyes bent down and said,--

"Can you not guess?"

"I cannot."

She was again silent. The silk was all wound.

"What is it? For God's sake, speak!"

"There is an obstacle to our happiness--is there not?"

"There is."

"And but one?"

"But one."

She raised her head a little, so as to look him full in the face, and then closing her eyes, in the way peculiar to her, suddenly flashed them upon him. In that instant he divined the diabolical thought which was in her mind, but which she did not dare to utter; he felt a sickening disgust steal over him, as this idea rushed hideously into his soul.

There was a breathless pause. He mastered his emotion as well as he could, and determined to have no possible uncertainty on the subject, but to make her avow it in all its explicitness. Collecting himself, therefore, he whispered,--

"_That obstacle must be removed!_"

A strange expression stole over her eyes, as she heard this, and said,--

"Have you the courage?"

He could scarcely falter out,--

"I have!"

Her point was gained. She no more meant her horrible suggestion to be realized, than he meant to realize it. They were both trying each other. She, to see the extent of her power; he, to ascertain the truth of his suspicions.

Imagining her power great enough to lead him into any crime, she burst out laughing.

"And do you mean to say you thought me serious, Marmaduke?"

"I did."

"Then what a villain you must be!"

"I am only your slave."

She shook her head at him, and said,--

"Slaves should not listen to such thoughts. If I thought you were serious, I should loathe you."

"And I should loathe myself," he said, coldly.

It so happened that both believed the other guilty of the serious intention, and attributed the disavowal to fear of having been understood. Marmaduke had noticed the affected tone of her laughter; it was affected, but not from the cause he imagined: it arose from a sense of uneasiness at having pushed the experiment too far, and from a dread of his really believing her to be serious.

On the other hand, she noticed the faltering hesitation and coldness of his tone, which she interpreted into the uneasiness of guilt, but which really arose from the intense loathing he felt for her. It only seemed a confirmation of her power.

Nothing could ever have persuaded Marmaduke that Mrs. Vyner was innocent of the thoughts he attributed to her; and his loathing was so great, that it not only completely crushed the sort of love he had felt for her, but revived his desire for vengeance, which he thought could not be made terrible enough to fitly punish such a wretch.

He dissembled his disgust, and only more urgently pleaded her to elope with him. At the conclusion of one of his speeches to that effect, he noticed that she seemed not to attend to him, but to be eagerly listening. Presently she put her finger upon her lips by way of caution, and then, in a voice she strove to make calm and distinct, said,--

"Marmaduke, I do not doubt your love, but I must not, will not listen to it. I am married. I never can forget that; do not you! If a sisterly regard will suffice you, that will I give; but you must here engage to think of me as a brother, and, above all, never again to let me hear from your lips the language I have heard to-day. Will you promise me?"

She nodded significantly to him to reply in the affirmative, and he said,--

"Will you, then, give me no hope?"

"None. You have heard my conditions. Do you accept them?"

"If I must."

"You must."

"Then I do."

"That's right. Now go home."

She put her finger again upon her lips, and motioned him to listen.

The gentle creak of retiring footsteps stealing away was then distinctly heard. As they ceased, she said,--

"That was my husband. He has overheard us. But fortunately he heard nothing which I cannot explain. Leave him to me."

Marmaduke went home in a state of fever, torn by the most vehement emotions, and seeing all darkly before him.