Chapter XV: A Tearful Farewell

Not a word passed between that wretched husband and wife for nearly fifteen minutes, then Arley wearily arose from her prostrate position and turned to leave the room.

Philip looked askance at her; his face was still clouded with mortification, disappointment, and anger, yet there was something like a gleam of pity in his eye for her.

“Arley,” he said, when she had nearly reached the door, and with a shamefacedness which was anything but comfortable, “where are you going?--what do you intend to do?”

She turned with a long-drawn sigh.

“I am going to my room; and I intend to do--the best I can.”

It was such a pathetic, heart-broken reply, and it cut him keenly.

“I do not understand you--what do you mean by that? Do you still mean to be obstinate about this money?”

“I am not ‘obstinate,’ Philip; but I shall do what I believe to be right. I shall relinquish everything to Ina Wentworth.”

That last name came hard to her, and with a sob, for she realized as she spoke how entirely another would henceforth occupy the place which hitherto had belonged to her alone.

“You are determined to do it, then?” he said, moodily.

“Yes, I must.”

“Will you give me up also, Arley?” Philip asked, in a cruel tone.

She grew so white at this that he was frightened, and regretted having asked the question.

Very slowly she went toward him, and, looking up into his face, she said, in a hushed, pained tone:

“When I spoke those words which made me your wife a few hours ago they were like solemn oaths taken in the presence of God. I promised to love and honor you--to cleave unto you until death should separate us. Do you think after such vows that I could easily give you up? My heart is nearly broken by what you have told me to-day--to be told, after giving you all that I had to give, without any reservation--my love, my confidence, myself--that instead of loving me in return, you have only been seeking my miserable money! nay”--as he opened his lips as if about to speak--“you need not try to palliate your act, for I know now that that was your principal object: I was simply a necessary incumbrance. It was a cruel--it was an ignoble thing, Philip Paxton, for you to do, and I wonder that you should dare to profane your lips with those solemn words which you uttered to-day. How could you do it, Philip--how could you deceive me so?”

She wrung her hands in her misery, and her face was almost convulsed with pain.

“But,” she went on without waiting for him to reply even if he had desired to do so, “can it be possible that you would be willing, as you intimated a moment ago, to have the tie which unites us, dissolved? Do you wish to be rid of me, now that you have discovered that I shall bring you no money?”

“I--Arley--I wish you would not ask such absurd questions,” Philip replied, uneasily; but he did not offer her one word of comfort or love; he did not, as almost any other man would have done, take her tenderly into his arms, and tell her that she was more to him than a hundred fortunes, that he would work for her with all his might, and, cheered by her great love, he would surmount every obstacle and win wealth for her in the end.

“How can I help asking you, after all that you have acknowledged to me?” she cried, with a little burst of scorn; then added, with sudden dignity: “But no, I will say no more about that; I am your wife, and it belongs to you to take care of me to the best of your ability. You won me, and I gave myself to you in good faith, and now I will not be disgraced in the eyes of the world. I suppose I could do what others have done--refuse to receive so much as a crust from your hand, and go out into the world and battle for myself. But I will not; I will take whatever you can give me--and I can be content with very little, so that I am allowed to retain my self-respect. You have ruined my life, and I feel that, after what has passed between us during this hour, I can never be more to you than a wife in name--the tie that binds us is but a mockery; but to all outward appearance--for the sake of the proprieties of life and to save scandal--we must preserve the semblance of a happy husband and wife”--her lips curled scornfully as she said it--“who were this morning wedded in the presence of so many witnesses. Now tell me, Philip, what your plans for the future are,” she concluded, in a matter-of-fact tone.

He gazed at her in astonishment.

A few moments ago she was heart-broken and despairing; now she seemed to have cast aside all sentiment, and become suddenly aroused to the business and reality of life, and to the necessity of immediate action.

“I have made none,” he briefly replied.

“Then, will you make some now? We cannot remain here, of course, as we are situated.”

“Where will you go?” he asked, as if he were entirely passive in the matter.

Her eyes blazed.

How weakly he was trying to shirk the responsibility of their future upon her.

“I will go wherever it is proper that you should take me,” she said, with dignity; “you know best what you can afford to do.”

“Are you willing to go into obscurity with me--to give up the society in which you have been in the habit of mingling, and bear to have your friends pass you by as the wife of a poor man?”

“I have no choice in the matter,” she returned, coldly. “If”--and here her voice grew strained and hard--“if you had loved me, I could have gone to the ends of the earth with you, lived in a cabin and shared any hardship, deeming it no sacrifice; now, however, I can only try to make the best of my fate, and by striving to do my duty, winning thus the only compensation possible--that of an easy conscience. Now, if you will tell me what I am to do, I will go at once and prepare to accompany you wherever you say.”

Philip saw that she was resolute, and after thinking for a few moments, he said:

“As long as the tickets have been purchased, I think it will be as well to follow out our original plan, and at least start upon our journey; you know I have bought round-trip tickets for Paris, and we may as well have the benefit of that much travel, and thus avoid any unpleasant remarks which might be made if we should remain in London. Meantime we can arrange other plans for the future. Another train will leave for Northampton in a couple of hours,” he added, looking at his watch, “and if you can be ready by that time we will go on that.”

“Very well,” Arley returned, quietly, “if such is your decision, I will be ready when the time arrives.”

She turned away from him and disappeared within her chamber, while he, feeling relieved that this ordeal was over, even though he had been worsted in the conflict, descended once more to the library, as the place where he would be least likely to be disturbed.

Arley immediately sat down to her writing-desk, after he had gone, and dashed off a rapid note to Mr. Holley, her lawyer, asking him to come to her at once.

This she dispatched by a servant to his office, bidding him use all possible haste to deliver it.

Then, going to one of her trunks, which was packed and ready for her journey, she unlocked it, and took from it a massive ebony box, inlaid with pearl and gold.

Opening this, she laid out many little trinkets and some costly articles of jewelry, which had belonged to her supposed mother--trinkets which she had learned to love and value for that reason alone, and it was not without a pang of regret that she separated them from her own store of ornaments. But she knew that she ought not to keep them, and that Ina would doubtless prize them as highly as she had done, therefore she was going to give them to her.

When Mrs. Wentworth followed her husband to India she left all such things behind, feeling that they would be comparatively useless in the life she expected to lead, and knowing that the care of them would be burdensome. Thus they had been preserved and given to Arley when she was old enough to appreciate them.

While she was engaged in this work, Miss McAllister came in, and, observing her occupation, tears sprang to her eyes.

Still, she admired the heroism of the girl in thus being willing and even eager to render full justice to Ina.

“This is very hard for you, dear,” she said, in a trembling voice.

“Yes, hard, but right, auntie. I suppose I may still say ‘auntie,’ even though I have now no legal right to call you so?” she said, looking up appealingly into the old lady’s face.

“My child, I should feel deeply hurt if you did not continue to address me by the old familiar name, for this change in your circumstances cannot in the least change my affection for you--you will ever be the same dear Arley to me.”

“Thank you, auntie; as you have observed, I am selecting all the jewelry which belonged to mamma--I cannot help thinking of her as ‘mamma,’ even now--to give to Ina; the other things, I suppose, I may keep, since they were given to me personally, even though I was believed to be somebody whom I am not?”

“Certainly you should keep them--no one would expect you to resign them,” Miss McAllister replied.

“But there is something that troubles me greatly,” Arley pursued. “You know that I spent a great deal of money upon my bridal finery--money that I would not have touched had I dreamed of anything like this, and now I shall never be able to wear any of it without feeling very uncomfortable.”

“Do not let it cause you the least anxiety, dear. I will settle every bill when it becomes due, and make up to Ina what has already been spent; it will give me great pleasure to do this for you, Arley, so wear your pretty things, and take all the comfort you can in them,” Miss McAllister said, tenderly.

“Thank you, dear Aunt Angeline; you are very good, and, believing that you are glad to help me out of this trouble, I cannot refuse to accept your kindness,” Arley replied, gratefully.

“I want to tell you,” the elder lady resumed, “that I approve of your course to-day very heartily, and if anything could have endeared you more to me, this would have served to do so.”

“I am only trying to do what I know to be right,” Arley said, simply.

“Yes; but every one is not always willing to do what he or she knows to be right, especially when it involves such a sacrifice as you are making. But I have come to you with a message from Ina, who is deeply troubled over this affair. She cannot endure the thought that you should give up everything, and she begs that you will at least share equally with her.”

“I cannot, auntie,” Arley said, firmly. “I have used too much of this money already. Just think of all the years during which I have been living upon and spending it, while she has had scarcely a comfort during her whole life! No; I will not touch a pound of it; and if I could do so, I would restore all that I have frittered away. It is very sweet and kind in Ina to wish it, but it would not be right.”

“You must not be morbidly sensitive over what is past and you could not help,” Miss McAllister said. “You are not responsible for the mistake of others, so I beg that you will not grieve over it any more. What does your--what does Philip say?” she asked, with a searching glance into the pale, sad face and heavy eyes of the young bride.

Arley flushed, but she would not have had her know Philip’s feelings for the world.

“Of course, he thinks it is rather hard that I should lose everything and be involved in such mystery all at once; but we shall no doubt do very well without the money; you know it is said that he is a very good lawyer. We are going to take the next train for Northampton, and go on our journey just as we planned to do at first. I am glad,” she added, with a pitiful attempt to smile, and to get Miss McAllister’s thoughts as far as possible from Philip, “that you will not be left quite so lonely as you expected to be.”

Before Miss McAllister could reply, a maid put her head inside the door, with the announcement that Mr. Holley had come.

“Ask him to come right upstairs,” Arley said; and, gathering up her trinkets, she and her aunt returned to the boudoir, where the lawyer soon made his appearance.

She entered at once upon the business before her, and explained why she had sent for him--because she wished the twenty thousand pounds which had hitherto been regarded as hers to be immediately transferred to the rightful heir, Ina Wentworth.

The kind-hearted lawyer expressed sorrow and sympathy for her loss, but admitted that she was right, and commended her warmly for the prompt action she had taken in the matter.

He asked a few questions, made a few remarks regarding the transfer, and then took his departure, promising to give the matter his immediate attention.

Then Arley made herself ready for her own departure; but it was with a very sad heart, for she felt that she was about to leave this dear home forever, to go out upon an untried world. She knew not what was before her; it was like going out into the dark with no trustworthy guide to lean upon. But not a word of this doubt and fear did she breathe to any one. She put a brave face up to Miss McAllister to be kissed ere she went out, for her pride kept stern guard over the secret of her husband’s unworthiness, and the bitter disappointment which the knowledge of it brought her.

As Miss McAllister bade her a tearful farewell, she slipped a folded paper into her hand.

“It is only a little pin-money, dear,” she whispered. “Your husband, no doubt, will keep your purse well supplied, but this is to remember auntie by.”

It proved to be a hundred-pound note, and seemed like a fated gift, for it brought her much after-suffering.

Ina Wentworth scanned the young bride’s face with sad inquiry as she made her adieus. Somehow she felt instinctively as if the loss of this fortune would cause unhappiness between the husband and wife, and she would have been so glad to have saved her from all trouble.

“I feel like a usurper,” she said, with starting tears, as Arley took her hand in farewell.

“You need not,” was the quick, earnest reply; “for I am very glad that auntie is to have a companion, and”--bending nearer, and speaking lower--“I know if I were going to remain with you, I should soon learn to love you very dearly.”

“Do you?” Ina exclaimed, her whole face glowing with sudden joy. “I think it is so lovely of you to say so, and I feel a great deal happier for it. Now, if you would----”

“But I will not,” Arley interrupted, playfully, knowing well enough what she was about to say, and she sealed the sweet lips with a soft kiss, after which she followed Philip to the carriage, and was whirled away from the home of her childhood, which she was not to enter again for a long time.