Chapter VII: Another Love Scene

_Claude_.--"Miserable trickster! you know that your weapon is harmless!--You have the courage of the mountebank, sir, not the bravo."

BULWER.--_Lady of Lyons._

That very day a strangely different scene took place in that house.

Mrs. Vyner was in that famous boudoir before described; Maxwell was gloomily pacing it to and fro. He was there for the purpose of having an "explanation"; but he found her more than a match for him, and was now trying to beat from his stupid brain a convincing argument.

"You don't love me," he at last exclaimed.

"Have you come here to tell me that? If so, I would have you observe, that you have chosen a singularly inappropriate occasion."

"I say you don't love me," he repeated, and his eyes sparkled with malignant fire.

"Perhaps not. You do not take the way to make me love you."

This was said with such an air of quiet indifference, that he paused to look at her, as if he could read on her brow a confirmation of what she said.

"I do not love you then!" he said bitterly. "I have not loved you for two years .... not saying; a word about it .... loving you in secret .... seeing others more favoured, seeing others looking into your face as I dare not look .... suffering tortures of jealousy .... I do not take the way to gain your love! what way should I then take?"

"Be amiable .... women are not captivated by scowls .... George, you are unjust to me. Sit down, and listen to me calmly. Remember my position."

"You take care I shall not forget it."

"Would you then forget it?"

"Yes; for it keeps you from me. It is in your mouth at all times. 'My position' is your excuse for everything."

"And is it not a valid excuse?"

"No; it is not: it is a mere excuse. Remember your position, indeed! why do you love another man than your husband, if your _position_ forbids it?"

She looked at him in surprise, but even her tiger eyes quailed beneath the savage glance of her brutal lover. She felt that he was her _master_! He was not to be led as Marmaduke had been led, because in him there was none of the generous principle, or chivalric sensibility, which made Marmaduke, in spite of his impetuosity, pliable and manageable. He had almost as much vehemence, and infinitely more brutality. She saw all this; yet she loved him. Strange paradox of human nature, she loved the fierce, narrow-minded, ungenerous Maxwell, with a far deeper passion than she had felt for the generous, open-hearted, high-spirited Marmaduke! It may be that she felt more sympathy with a being of a lower order; or it may be that Maxwell alone had conquered her: certain it is, that she felt for him another kind of passion, and was more his slave than he hers. By a not uncommon transposition of places, he, who as an unacknowledged lover had been the most abject slave, became, when acknowledged, the most unflinching tyrant. This is generally the case with brute natures.

It is not to be supposed that she submitted quietly. She was too fond of power to relinquish it without a struggle; but although ridicule was a weapon she wielded with unsparing skill, and a weapon he dreaded more than any other; yet even that was but a small sword which was beaten down by the heavy sabre of his fierce sarcasm.

"You do not answer me," he said, irritated at her silence.

"Until you can speak to me as a gentleman," she replied, "I shall remain silent."

"That is an easy way of ending an argument."

"There is an easier."

"Is there, indeed?"

"And more efficient--do not force me to it."

"Pray what is it?"

"To leave the room."

She rose and walked to the door. He seized her wrist.

"Let me go, sir; you hurt me..... This violence is _manly_--but it is like you..... Let me go..... Will you force me to ring the bell, and have you ordered out of the house?"

"Ring the bell! you dare not ring it! I defy you..... What could you say? what do I do here? .... Ring it, by all means!"

She was stung by his manner, and looking on him with intense scorn, said,--

"I will."

As she moved towards the bell, he drew a pistol from his pocket. She started, terrified at the sight.

"You brave me, do you?" he said, hoarse with passion; "you brave me; well! ring!"

Her hand was on the bell: she hesitated.

"What means that? Do you intend to murder me?"

"_I do!_"

She did not start, she did not scream; a smile of unutterable scorn passed over her face.

"Ring it, I tell you."

"You wish me to order you to be turned out?"

"I wish to end this struggle--and I declare to God that I will end it, either in my favour, or with your life. I am reckless; choose you! You think I am a fool; you are mistaken: I am no fool; nor shall you make me one. You say you love me; I hope for your sake you speak truly; if you do not, you shall not live to torture me."

"Your hand trembles."

"It is with passion, then. It is because the crisis has arrived. It is because this is the moment that must decide everything."

Her hand was still upon the bell. Her calmness puzzled and exasperated him, and when she said with a slight irony in her tone,--

"And you really talk of shooting me, to prove your love?"

He levelled the pistol at her, and shouted,--

"Ring the bell, and try me!"

"I will. But first allow me to observe, that if there is one thing more despicable than the threat you make, it is to commit the exquisitely ridiculous mistake of _acting_ such a part as you now act. Passion might excuse the _deed_; nothing can efface the childish stupidity of the _pretence_. Mr. Maxwell, when next you get up a scene like this, at least take care that your pistol is _loaded_; yours has no cap!"

Having uttered this in the coldest, calmest tone imaginable, she rang the bell.

A cry burst from him as he looked down, and saw in truth, that there was no cap on the nipple. He thrust the pistol into his pocket, and threw himself into a chair in wild confusion.

The servant entered.

"Order a cab for Mr. Maxwell," Mrs. Vyner said.

The servant retired, and they were again alone. Not a word passed. Overwhelmed with rage and shame, Maxwell sat brooding on his stormy thoughts. Mrs. Vyner watched him with scorn: he had lost the hold over her which his violence had gained: she now thought that he was not so terrible as Marmaduke had been, and from having feared, she now despised him.

"The cab is at the door," said the servant.

Maxwell did not move. His dark thoughts occupied him. It had been no vulgar threat, for the pistol was really loaded, although the cap had been forgotten; but he understood the contempt with which she must regard him, and he was ruminating projects of vengeance.

She had taken up a book and was affecting to read, as if undisturbed by his presence; he was made aware of it by the rustle of the leaves as she turned them over; and conscious of the disadvantage of his position, he at length arose, and looking at her malignantly, said,--

"You fancy me an actor; I am one; my first appearance has been in a farce; laugh, laugh! my next will be in a tragedy!"

And with a low bow he retired.