Chapter II: Love Not Killed by Unkindness

For what will love's exalting not go through,
'Till long neglect and utter selfishness
Shames the fond pride it takes in its distress?
LEIGH HUNT.--_Rimini._

Cecil had removed to miserable lodgings at Hammersmith, consisting of two rooms, and those wretchedly furnished; he had also reduced his expenses by giving up his _atélier_, and was now, without pretence at concealment, a gambler, and nothing else.

Blanche's grief when she first discovered his relapse was not so great as might have been expected, simply because she had to defend him against the bitter accusations of her father, and in the effort to excuse her husband in the eyes of another, she succeeded in greatly excusing him in her own.

There were doubtless many sleepless nights she had to pass, moodily contemplating the probable consequences of their fate; but when Cecil came home, her sorrow fled. Either he had won, and then his gaiety charmed her, and she allowed herself to be seduced into sharing his sanguine expectations; or else he had lost, and then she had to comfort and console him, and in that effort to assuage his grief, forgot her own.

There was something indescribably affecting in the tender solicitude and unshaken love of this gentle creature for her wretched husband; she had truly married him for better and for worse, in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, and no adversity could alter the current of that love, which flowed from the everlasting fountain of her heart. He had blighted her youth; he had blighted the existence of their child; but she loved him perhaps still more dearly than on that happy day when the priest had joined them at the altar. He had been weak, contemptible, even infamous; but he had never ceased to be the idol of her heart.

One day she missed her watch; that watch which Cecil had given her, and which had always been at her side. She hunted about the house for it. All day she was in great distress at having lost it, and endeavoured in vain to persuade herself that perhaps Cecil had taken it out with him. He returned at two o'clock in the morning. Her first question was,

"Darling, have you my watch?"

"No," said he sulkily.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! it is lost, then--I have lost it--some one has stolen it!"

"Pooh! don't make a fuss--it's all right."

"Have you got it?'

"No; but I know where it is."

"Where?"

"In a place where it is quite safe--never fear!"

She understood him. He had pawned it, and the proceeds had gone where every shilling went.

Another day she missed the baby's coral with its golden bells. This time she said nothing; she knew too well what must have become of it, and she burst into tears as she thought of the fearful situation of a father robbing his own child to feed an infatuated passion!

One by one, every article upon which money could be raised had disappeared, until he possessed literally nothing more than the clothes he stood up in.

It was in vain she argued with herself that he, as the master, had a right to sell his own property, to sell anything and everything he pleased; she could not drive away the idea of there being something sneaking in this furtive disposal of his goods; an open sale might be necessitated, but this silent disappearance by stealth of article after article was horrible. She never knew what was gone until she wanted it; and at last her uneasiness became so great that she trembled to seek the most trifling thing.

Blanche's eyes were not shut to all the weakness of her husband's character, though her affection made her sophisticate with herself to an extraordinary extent. She saw the deplorable effects of his infatuation, and tried her best to wean him from it; but she always trusted that he would see the folly of the pursuit, and that, after a certain amount of experience, he would be cured. Meanwhile, that hope grew fainter and fainter, as time, instead of lessening, seemed to increase his passion.

To Vyner, Julius, Rose, and Violet, it seemed perfectly incomprehensible that Blanche should continue to love such a wretch as Cecil.

"His conduct," Vyner would say, "is enough to have estranged an angel."

Yet the fact is, that his conduct had not in the least degree alienated her affection from him; and the explanation of this fact resides in the moral axiom (the truth of which a large experience of human nature cannot fail to illustrate), that affection depends upon _character_, not upon _conduct_.

We love those most with whom we sympathize most, not those from whom we have received the greatest benefits. The husband who ill-treats his wife (as people say) is often idolized, while the husband who idolizes his wife is often looked upon as a "good sort of person" at the best. No doubt, the ill-treated wife suffers from, and resents each act of ill-treatment; as the kindly-treated wife is pleased and grateful for each act of kindness; but in the one case, occasional acts cannot destroy that sympathy which is the bond of love; nor in the other case, can the occasional kindnesses create it. Again, I say it is character, not conduct, which creates affection.

It was Cecil's character that Blanche sympathized with. His affectionate, caressing manners--his gaiety, his cleverness, and as she thought genius, were qualities the charm of which could not be resisted. Then he loved her so truly! not enough, indeed, to forego, for her sake, the excitement of the gaming-table: not enough to prevent his sacrificing her with himself to this infatuation: but that was because he was incapable of _self-mastery_. And if he was weak, she sympathized with his weakness.

Turn the phrase how we will, it always comes back to these simple pregnant words: she loved him!