He began as a young man by marrying a circus-rider.
He got into some other scrape, after that, which he has contrived to keep a secret from us.
We only know how disgraceful it must have been by the results—he was a voluntary exile from England for more than a year.
And now, to complete the list, he has mixed himself up in that miserable and revolting business of Lewis Romayne and his wife.”
If any other person had spoken of me in this manner, I should have set him down as a mischievous idiot—to be kicked perhaps, but not to be noticed in any other way.
With you, the case is different.
If I die without male offspring, the Beaupark estate goes to you, as next heir.
I don’t choose to let a man in this position slander me, and those dear to me, without promptly contradicting him.
The name I bear is precious to me, in memory of my father.
Your unanswered allusion to my relations with “Lewis Romayne and his wife,” coming from a member of the family, will be received as truth.
Rather than let this be, I reveal to you, without reserve, some of the saddest passages of my life.
I have nothing to be ashamed of—and, if I have hitherto kept certain events in the dark, it has been for the sake of others, not for my own sake.
I know better now.
A woman’s reputation—if she is a good woman—is not easily compromised by telling the truth.
The person of whom I am thinking, when I write this, knows what I am going to do—and approves of it.
You will receive, with these lines, the most perfectly candid statement that I can furnish, being extracts cut out of my own private Diary.
They are accompanied (where plain necessity seems to call for it) by the written evidence of other persons.
There has never been much sympathy between us.
But you have been brought up like a gentleman—and, when you have read my narrative, I expect that you will do justice to me, and to others—even though you think we acted indiscreetly under trying and critical circumstances.
B.
W.
II. WINTERFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS.
First Extract.
April 11th, 1869.—Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter have left Beaupark to-day for London.
Have I really made any impression on the heart of the beautiful Stella?
In my miserable position—ignorant whether I am free or not—I have shrunk from formally acknowledging that I love her.
12th.—I am becoming superstitious!
In the Obituary of to-day’s Times the death is recorded of that unhappy woman whom I was mad enough to marry.
After hearing nothing of her for seven years—I am free!
Surely this is a good omen?
Shall I follow the Eyrecourts to London, and declare myself?
I have not confidence enough in my own power of attraction to run the risk.
Better to write first, in strictest confidence, to Mrs. Eyrecourt.
14th.—An enchanting answer from my angel’s mother, written in great haste.
They are on the point of leaving for Paris.
Stella is restless and dissatisfied; she wants change of scene; and Mrs. Eyrecourt adds, in so many words—“It is you who have upset her; why did you not speak while we were at Beaupark?”
I am to hear again from Paris.
Good old Father Newbliss said all along that she was fond of me, and wondered, like Mrs. Eyrecourt, why I failed to declare myself.
How could I tell them of the hideous fetters which bound me in those days?
18th, Paris.—She has accepted me!
Words are useless to express my happiness.
19th.—A letter from my lawyer, full of professional subtleties and delays.
I have no patience to enumerate them.
We move to Belgium to-morrow.
Not on our way back to England—Stella is so little desirous of leaving the Continent that we are likely to be married abroad.
But she is weary of the perpetual gayety and glitter of Paris, and wants to see the old Belgian cities.
Her mother leaves Paris with regret.
The liveliest woman of her age that I ever met with.
Brussels, May 7.—My blessing on the old Belgian cities.
Mrs. Eyrecourt is so eager to get away from them that she backs me in hurrying the marriage, and even consents, sorely against the grain, to let the wedding be celebrated at Brussels in a private and unpretending way.