Chapter XIV: The Alternative

Maxwell had just recovered from the effect of that broken bloodvessel which terminated the paroxysm of passion Mrs. Vyner's language and conduct had thrown him into.

At the very moment when she was asking herself, "What has become of Maxwell?" he concluded his will, arranged all his papers, burnt many letters, and, going to a drawer, took from them a pair of pocket pistols with double barrels.

He was very pale, and his veins seemed injected with bile in lieu of blood; but he was excessively calm.

In one so violent, in one whose anger was something more like madness than any normal condition of the human mind, who from childhood upwards had been unrestrained in the indulgence of his passion, this calmness was appalling.

He loaded the four barrels with extreme precision, having previously cleared the touchholes, and not only affixed the caps with care, but also took the precaution of putting some extra caps in his waistcoat pocket in case of accidents.

His hand did not tremble once; on his brow there was no scowl; on his colourless lips no grim smile; but calm, as if he were about the most indifferent act of his life, and breathing regularly as if no unusual thought was in his mind, he finished the priming of those deadly instruments, and placed them in his pocket.

Once more did he read over his will; and then having set everything in order, rang the bell.

"Fetch a cab," he said quietly to the servant who entered.

"Are you going out, sir?" asked the astonished servant.

"Don't you see I am?"

"Yes, sir,--only you are but just out of bed...."

"I am quite well enough."

There was no reply possible. The cab was brought. He stepped into it, and drove to Mrs. Vyner's.

Although she was thinking of him at the very moment when he was announced, she started at the sound of his name. His appearance startled her still more. She saw that he could only just have risen from a bed of sickness, and that sickness she knew had been caused by the vehemence of his love for her.

Affectionate as was her greeting, it brought no smile upon his lips, no light into his glazed eyes.

"The hypocrite!" was his mental exclamation.

"Oh! Maxwell, how I have longed to see you," she said "you left me in anger, and I confess I did not behave well to you; but why have you not been here before? did you not know that I was but too anxious to make it up with you?"

"How should I know that?" he quietly asked.

"How! did you not know my love for you?"

"I did not," he said, perfectly unmoved.

"You did not? Oh you ungrateful creature! Is that the return I am to meet with? Is it to say such things that you are here?"

A slight smile played in his eyes for a moment, but his lips were motionless.

"Come," she said, "you have been angry with me--I have been wrong--let us forget and forgive."

He did not touch her proffered hand, but said,--

"If for once in your life you can be frank, be so now."

"I will. What am I to say?"

Carelessly putting both hands into his coat pockets, and grasping the pistols, he rose, stretched out his coat tails, and stood before her in an attitude usual with him, and characteristic of Englishmen generally, when standing with their backs to the fire.

"You promise to be frank?" he said.

"I do."

"Then tell me whether Lord * * * * * was here yesterday."

"He was."

"Will he be here to-morrow?"

"Most likely."

"Then you have not given him his congé?"

"Not I."

Maxwell paused and looked at her keenly, his right hand grasping firmly the pistol in his pocket.

"Then may I ask the reason of your very civil reception of me to-day?"

"The reason! Civil!"

"Yes, the reason, the motive: you must have one."

"Is not my love...."

"You promised to be frank," he said, menacingly.

"I did--I am so."

"Then let us have no subterfuge of language--speak plainly--it will be better for you."

"Maxwell, if you are come here to irritate me with your jealousy, and your absurd doubts, you have chosen a bad time. I am not well. I am not happy. I do not wish to quarrel with you--do not force me to it."

"Beware!" he said, in deep solemn tones.

"Beware you! George, do not provoke me--pray do not. Sit down and talk reasonably. What is it you want to ask me?"

"I repeat: the motive for your civility to me?"

"And I repeat: my love."

"Your love!"

"There again! Why will you torment me with this absurd doubt? Why should you doubt me? Have I any interest in deceiving you? You are not my husband.--It is very strange that when I do not scruple to avow my love, you should scruple to believe me."

"My scruples arise from my knowledge of you: you are a coquette."

"I know it; but not to you."

"Solemnly--do you love me?"

"Solemnly--I do!"

He paused again, as unprepared for this dissimulation. She withstood his gaze without flinching.

An idea suddenly occurred to him.

"Mary, after what I have seen, doubts are justifiable. Are you prepared to give me a proof?"

"Yes, any; name it."

"Will you go with me to France?"

"Run away with you?"

"You refuse!" he said, half drawing a pistol from his pocket.

She was bewildered. The suddenness of the proposition, and its tremendous importance staggered her.

A deep gloom concentrated on his face; the crisis had arrived, and he only awaited a word from her to blow her brains out.

With the indescribable rapidity of thought, her mind embraced the whole consequences of his offer--weighed the chances--exposed the peril of her situation with her husband, and permitted her to calculate whether, since separation seemed inevitable, there would not be an advantage in accepting Maxwell's offer. "He loves me," she said; "loves me as no one ever loved before. With him I shall be happy."

"I await your decision," he said.

"George, I am yours!"

She flung herself upon his neck. He was so astonished at her resolution, that at first he could not believe it, and his hands still grasped the pistols; but by degrees her embrace convinced him, and clasping her in his arms, he exclaimed,--

"Your love has saved you! You shall be a happy woman--I will be your slave!"