FullReads

They spent several hours together, Cheeseman talking of his faults, his virtues, his calamities, and his hopes, like the impulsive, well-meaning, but nerveless fellow that he was. Rosamund gathered from it all, as she had vaguely learnt from his recent correspondence, that the alluring widow no longer claimed him; but he did not enter into details on this delicate subject. They had tea at a restaurant by Notting Hill Gate; then, Miss Jewell appearing indefatigable, they again strolled in unfrequented ways. At length was uttered the question for which Rosamund had long ago prepared her reply.

“You cannot expect me,” she said sweetly, “to answer at once.”

“Of course not! I shouldn’t have dared to hope–“

He choked and swallowed; a few beads of perspiration shining on his troubled face.

“You have my address; most likely I shall spend a week or two there. Of course you may write. I shall probably go to my sister’s in Scotland, for the autumn–“

“Oh! don’t say that–don’t. To lose you again–so soon–“

“I only said, ‘probably’–“

“Oh, thank you!–To go so far away–And the autumn; just when I have a little freedom; the very best time–if I dared to hope such a thing.”

Rosamund graciously allowed him to bear her company as far as to the street in which she lived.

A few days later she wrote to Mrs. Halliday, heading her letter with the Glasgow address. She lamented the sudden impossibility of returning to her domestic duties. Something had happened.”In short, dear Mrs. Halliday, I am going to be married. I could not give you warning of this, it has come so unexpectedly. Do forgive me! I so earnestly hope that you will find some one to take my place, some one better and more of a help to you. I know I haven’t been much use. Do write home at Glasgow and say I may still regard you as a dear friend.”

This having been dispatched, she sat musing over her prospects. Mr. Cheeseman had honestly confessed the smallness of his income; he could barely count upon a hundred and fifty a year; but things might improve. She did not dislike him–no, she did not dislike him. He would be a very tractable husband. Compared, of course, with–

A letter was brought up to her room. She knew the flowing commercial hand, and broke the envelope without emotion. Two sheets–three sheets–and a half. But what was all this? “Despair… thoughts of self-destruction… ignoble publicity… practical ruin… impossible… despise and forget… Dante’s hell… deeper than ever plummet sounded… forever! ….” So again he had deceived her! He must have known that the widow was dangerous; his reticence was mere shuffling. His behaviour to that other woman had perhaps exceeded in baseness his treatment of herself; else, how could he be so sure that a jury would give her “ruinous damages”? Or was it all a mere illustration of a man’s villainy? Why should not shealso sue for damages? Why not? Why not?

The three months that followed were a time of graver peril, of darker crisis, than Rosamund, with all her slip-slop experiences, had ever known. An observer adequately supplied with facts, psychological and material, would more than once have felt that it depended on the mere toss of a coin whether she kept or lost her social respectability. She sounded all the depths possible to such a mind and heart–save only that from which there could have been no redemption. A saving memory lived within her, and at length, in the yellow gloom of a November morning–her tarnished, draggle-tailed finery thrown aside for the garb she had worn in lowliness–Rosamund betook herself to Forest Hill. The house of the Hallidays looked just as usual. She slunk up to the door, rang the bell, and waited in fear of a strange face. There appeared Mrs. Halliday herself. The surprised but friendly smile at once proved her forgiveness of Rosamund’s desertion. She had written, indeed, with calm good sense, hoping only that all would be well.