between her present situation and the life she imagined herself living with Frederick might prove impassable, but she could not give him up now; perhaps her husband would bow gracefully to the inevitable; in the meantime she felt perfectly content in the warmth of the suns diminishing rays and the certainty that Frederick loved her, and would tell her so again before tomorrows sun had set. But with the next morning's post came a note which said only: "Dear Mrs Lockhart, I very much regret that I shall be unable to keep our appt this afternoon; I can only plead the most pressing and unexpected business, and pray that you will accept my most abject apologies. Believe me, yours very sincerely, Frederick Liddell."
Julia had always appreciated his tact and discretion, but the notes formal brevity, and worse, the absence of any indication as to when, or even if, she might expect to hear from him again, chilled her to the bone. In vain she struggled to reassure herself with the thought that Frederick had, after all, to earn his living as best he could; for if such demands had never before prevented him from seeing her, how could they possibly have done so now? The rest of the day crawled by beneath an ever-darkening cloud of apprehension and despair. After a sleepless night of torment, Julia could bear no more; as soon as her husband had departed for his chambers she sent Frederick an unsigned note saying she would call at his rooms at three o'clock.
He was waiting at the street door when her cab arrived. One glance at his face confirmed her worst fears. In silence they trudged up flight after flight of stairs to the room that had witnessed such extremities of rapture. As the memory flooded back to her, Julia turned towards Frederick as if praying to be woken from a nightmare. To her horror, he actually recoiled before checking himself with a forced, mechanical courtesy that set the final seal upon her humiliation. Bright sunshine streamed mockingly through the tall casements; the French windows were closed.
"Frederick; tell me what has happened."
Her lips were so numb with misery that she could barely utter the words.
"I fear—I find I am hot free," he stammered, "that is to say ... that my affections are after all engaged ... I had hoped to overcome ... that it would not ... but I find I cannot..." He trailed off hopelessly.
"Do you mean—that there is someone else?"
"Yes." His eyes looked like the eyes of a dead man.
"Then why did you not tell me so before?"
"I did. But I had hoped..."
She did not understand until she realised that he was gesturing towards the portrait by the window. For a long moment Julia stood transfixed by Lydia's cool, implacable gaze, unwilling to comprehend what she had just heard.
"She is dead, Frederick. Whereas I..." But she could not go on.
"To the world, yes, but alas, not to me."
"And you feel you have betrayed her," said Julia bleakly.
"Yes," said Frederick. "I am most dreadfully sorry..."
Her tears would no longer be denied; she went blindly from the room and left him to his self-recrimination.
A S THE MONTHS PASSED , J ULIA FELT HERSELF MORE AND more irretrievably exiled from the life she had formerly led. The longing to speak of her sorrow remained as acute as ever, but there was no one, not even her closest friend Marianne, upon whose discretion she could absolutely rely. Perhaps it Was pride that made the idea of being talked about so intolerable to her; more particularly, the idea that anyone should know that her life had been laid waste by a rejection that, to some women of her acquaintance, might have meant little more than a loss at croquet. Julia was herself bewildered by the extent of the desolation that had befallen her; it was like wandering through the abandoned ruins of a once-thriving city. "Vet so far as she could tell, most of her friends were scarcely aware of the change in her. It was very strange to look in the mirror and see the same face and form that
Julia had always appreciated his tact and discretion, but the notes formal brevity, and worse, the absence of any indication as to when, or even if, she might expect to hear from him again, chilled her to the bone. In vain she struggled to reassure herself with the thought that Frederick had, after all, to earn his living as best he could; for if such demands had never before prevented him from seeing her, how could they possibly have done so now? The rest of the day crawled by beneath an ever-darkening cloud of apprehension and despair. After a sleepless night of torment, Julia could bear no more; as soon as her husband had departed for his chambers she sent Frederick an unsigned note saying she would call at his rooms at three o'clock.
He was waiting at the street door when her cab arrived. One glance at his face confirmed her worst fears. In silence they trudged up flight after flight of stairs to the room that had witnessed such extremities of rapture. As the memory flooded back to her, Julia turned towards Frederick as if praying to be woken from a nightmare. To her horror, he actually recoiled before checking himself with a forced, mechanical courtesy that set the final seal upon her humiliation. Bright sunshine streamed mockingly through the tall casements; the French windows were closed.
"Frederick; tell me what has happened."
Her lips were so numb with misery that she could barely utter the words.
"I fear—I find I am hot free," he stammered, "that is to say ... that my affections are after all engaged ... I had hoped to overcome ... that it would not ... but I find I cannot..." He trailed off hopelessly.
"Do you mean—that there is someone else?"
"Yes." His eyes looked like the eyes of a dead man.
"Then why did you not tell me so before?"
"I did. But I had hoped..."
She did not understand until she realised that he was gesturing towards the portrait by the window. For a long moment Julia stood transfixed by Lydia's cool, implacable gaze, unwilling to comprehend what she had just heard.
"She is dead, Frederick. Whereas I..." But she could not go on.
"To the world, yes, but alas, not to me."
"And you feel you have betrayed her," said Julia bleakly.
"Yes," said Frederick. "I am most dreadfully sorry..."
Her tears would no longer be denied; she went blindly from the room and left him to his self-recrimination.
A S THE MONTHS PASSED , J ULIA FELT HERSELF MORE AND more irretrievably exiled from the life she had formerly led. The longing to speak of her sorrow remained as acute as ever, but there was no one, not even her closest friend Marianne, upon whose discretion she could absolutely rely. Perhaps it Was pride that made the idea of being talked about so intolerable to her; more particularly, the idea that anyone should know that her life had been laid waste by a rejection that, to some women of her acquaintance, might have meant little more than a loss at croquet. Julia was herself bewildered by the extent of the desolation that had befallen her; it was like wandering through the abandoned ruins of a once-thriving city. "Vet so far as she could tell, most of her friends were scarcely aware of the change in her. It was very strange to look in the mirror and see the same face and form that
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