Sketches in Lavender, Blue and Green | Page 7

nothing. I wish to know
nothing. Go back to London at once. I have made everything right; no
one suspects. I shall not be there; you will never see me again, and you
will have an opportunity of undoing your mistake-- our mistake."
She listened. Hers was not a great nature, and the desire to obtain
happiness without paying the price was strong upon her. As for his
good name, what could that matter? he urged. People would only say
that he had gone back to the evil from which he had emerged, and few
would be surprised. His life would go on much as it had done, and she
would only be pitied.
She quite understood his plan; it seemed mean of her to accept his
proposal, and she argued feebly against it. But he overcame all her
objections. For his own sake, he told her, he would prefer the scandal to
be connected with his name rather than with that of his wife. As he
unfolded his scheme, she began to feel that in acquiescing she was
conferring a favour. It was not the first deception he had arranged for
the public, and he appeared to be half in love with his own cleverness.
She even found herself laughing at his mimicry of what this

acquaintance and that would say. Her spirits rose; the play that might
have been a painful drama seemed turning out an amusing farce.
The thing settled, he rose to go, and held out his hand. As she looked
up into his face, something about the line of his lips smote upon her.
"You will be well rid of me," she said. "I have brought you nothing but
trouble."
"Oh, trouble," he answered. "If that were all! A man can bear trouble."
"What else?" she asked.
His eyes travelled aimlessly about the room. "They taught me a lot of
things when I was a boy," he said, "my mother and others--they meant
well--which as I grew older I discovered to be lies; and so I came to
think that nothing good was true, and that everything and everybody
was evil. And then--"
His wandering eyes came round to her and he broke off abruptly.
"Good-bye," he said, and the next moment he was gone.
She sat wondering for a while what he had meant. Then Sennett
returned, and the words went out of her head.
A good deal of sympathy was felt for Mrs. Blake. The man had a
charming wife; he might have kept straight; but as his friends added,
"Blake always was a cad."

AN ITEM OF FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE

Speaking personally, I do not like the Countess of --. She is not the type
of woman I could love. I hesitate the less giving expression to this
sentiment by reason of the conviction that the Countess of -- would not
be unduly depressed even were the fact to reach her ears. I cannot
conceive the Countess of --'s being troubled by the opinion concerning
her of any being, human or divine, other than the Countess of --.
But to be honest, I must admit that for the Earl of -- she makes an ideal
wife. She rules him as she rules all others, relations and retainers, from
the curate to the dowager, but the rod, though firmly held, is wielded
with justice and kindly intent. Nor is it possible to imagine the Earl of
--'s living as contentedly as he does with any partner of a less
dominating turn of mind. He is one of those weak-headed,
strong-limbed, good-natured, childish men, born to be guided in all
matters, from the tying of a neck-cloth to the choice of a political party,

by their women folk. Such men are in clover when their proprietor
happens to be a good and sensible woman, but are to be pitied when
they get into the hands of the selfish or the foolish. As very young men,
they too often fall victims to bad-tempered chorus girls or to
middle-aged matrons of the class from which Pope judged all
womankind. They make capital husbands when well managed; treated
badly, they say little, but set to work, after the manner of a dissatisfied
cat, to find a kinder mistress, generally succeeding. The Earl of --
adored his wife, deeming himself the most fortunate of husbands, and
better testimonial than such no wife should hope for. Till the day she
snatched him away from all other competitors, and claimed him for her
own, he had obeyed his mother with a dutifulness bordering on folly.
Were the countess to die to-morrow, he would be unable to tell you his
mind on any single subject until his eldest daughter and his still
unmarried sister, ladies both of strong character, attracted towards one