Chapter IV: Humbled Pride

Cecil received those demonstrations of joy with moody sullenness. He had returned exasperated by failure, gloomy with the dark thoughts which lowered upon him, like heavy clouds collected over the sunny fields, boding a coming storm.

"Blanche," he said, "we are beggars."

The smile was still upon her face; she pushed the hair gently from off his forehead.

"There is no hope left. I have tried every body."

"I have had a visitor, darling, since you went out. Guess who it was."

"Julius?"

"No."

"Your father?"

"No."

"A dun?"

"Captain Heath."

"The devil it was!"

"Yes; I thought it would surprise you. Oh! I was so happy to see him!"

"Heath... here!" exclaimed Cecil, his cheek burning as he spoke. "And you saw him? ... received him here ... and in my absence? You did?"

"Was I wrong?" she, trembling, asked.

"Wrong? Oh, no; it was not wrong to receive your lover. You needn't start ... he is your lover, and you know it! You know, moreover, that I hate him... The scoundrel! And he saw you here ... here, in this beggarly place ... in this hole of poverty! And he triumphed over me ... triumphed because his prophecy was fulfilled! Didn't he, too, urge you to leave me? Didn't he, too, tell you I was a villain, dragging you to ruin? Didn't he offer to take you home? .... Speak! don't stare at me in that way! Tell me all the scoundrel said ... quick!"

"Cecil, Cecil, down on your knees, and beg his pardon for having so slandered him! You are not in your senses to speak so--and of him, of him!"

"Slandered him, have I? What! the sneaking wretch who takes advantage of my present situation...."

"To assist _you_!" indignantly exclaimed Blanche.

"Assist _me!_ and for what _purpose_? For whose sake--for mine? No; for yours! Oh! I see all his plans--I see them all!"

Cecil, mad with jealousy and rage, dashed his hand upon the table, and swore a fearful oath. It was not that he for a moment suspected his wife; but he had never been able to overcome his jealousy of Heath; and what added tenfold torture to that venomous feeling now, was the thought that Heath had come back to find Blanche reduced to want--to find her in this miserable lodging deprived of all the comforts and necessaries of life. He felt himself horribly humiliated in the eyes of his hated rival; he felt that his rival triumphed over his degradation; and he dreaded lest Blanche should have made an involuntary comparison between her present condition, and what it would have been had she married Heath. All this rapidly crossed his mind, and drove him to fury.

"Cecil," she said, struggling with her tears, "you are unhappy, and that makes you unjust. If you but knew the noble nature of him...."

"Hold your tongue! Am I to sit here and listen to _his_ praises? Noble nature, indeed! Yes, yes, I know it.... I know it."

"Then you know...."

"Silence, I say! Are you going to draw a comparison between us? Are you going to contrast his virtues with my vices? A good subject, but a bold one for a wife to touch upon!"

"Cecil, you break my heart... Will you hear me?"

"No!"

"What have I said or done...."

"You have received, during my absence, a man I hate--a man who, if he again crosses my threshold, I will throw out of the window."

"Look at this!" she said, presenting the cheque to him.

"What is that?"

"If you will not listen to me, trust your own eyes."

"A cheque for fifty pounds--and from _him_?"

"He came here to command a picture; you are to name your own price; that is on account."

Cecil took the cheque, looked at it, and then at her.

"And do you believe this?" he said, with intense calmness. "Do you really believe that he wants a picture?"

"No; I believe that to be an excuse...."

"An excuse! By God! she knows it!"

"It is a delicate way of assisting us.--That is the conduct of the man whom you have outraged by your suspicions."

Cecil was stupefied. Her perception of the subterfuge quite staggered him.

"So, so--he thinks to _buy_ you, does he?" he at last said, choking with rage.

She coloured deeply with shame, and exclaimed,--

"Oh, Cecil! Cecil!"

"Well then, to buy _me_! He thinks I am to be _patronized_.... to be his workman.... to receive his orders.... to receive his money! Blanche, this cheque is either an outrage to you, or an insult to me. Don't speak! .... Not another word."

He rose, and put on his hat.

"Good God! Cecil, what are you about to do?"

"To find out this liberal patron."

"Cecil, Cecil! do be calm!"

"I am. I will fling this cheque in his odious face, and tell him what I think."

She threw herself upon him.

"Cecil! my own darling! listen to your Blanche.... For God's sake, be calm! ... Think of me; think of your child! .... A duel! oh, Cecil! could you leave your child fatherless, Cecil?"

He flung her from him, and rushed out of the house: she reeled and fell. The child began to scream; the old lady living in the parlours hurried up stairs, and found Blanche lifeless on the floor.

Like a madman, Cecil bounded along the streets, goaded by one of those irresistible outbreaks of passion which sometimes mastered him. On reaching the house where Heath formerly lived, and hearing that he no longer lived there, he remembered Heath having just returned from abroad, and that his residence could only be known at his bankers. Thither he went: on his way he passed through Jermyn-street. It was in that street was kept the gaming-house where he had spent so many of his days and nights.

A new direction was given to his thoughts: insensibly they left the subject of Captain Heath to merge into that of play. Still he walked on, but less swiftly. The idea of the splendid martingale he had recently discovered, which this fifty pounds would enable him to play, would not leave him.

He walked more and more slowly. Fifty pounds--it might make his fortune.

After all, Heath might possibly have desired a picture. The fool! as if he knew anything about pictures--he, the heavy guardsman, purchase pictures!

Yet, if he was rich, that was one way of spending his money. There was nothing but what was perfectly legitimate in an artist receiving a commission;--all artists receive them.

And with this fifty pounds a fortune was within his grasp.

He no longer walked, he crawled. This money was certainly his, if he chose to take it; why should he refuse? To be sure, the money of that scoundrel! All an excuse, too: Blanche knew it was an excuse.

He quickened his pace again. He was at the banking-house: he pushed the door, and entered.

"I can return him the money to-morrow. I will say Blanche changed it. Out of my winnings I can repay it."

He handed the cheque to the cashier.

"How will you take it, sir?" demanded the cashier.

"Gold," was the brief answer.

His eyes sparkled as the fifty sovereigns were shovelled across the counter; and he left the bank with lights dancing before him.