# Ethel Churchill/Chapter 101

CHAPTER XXV.
LORD MARCHMONT'S JEALOUSY.
You never loved me! never cared for me! Had I been taken kindly to your heart, This present misery were all unknown: But I have been neglected and repelled;
My best affections chilled, or left to feed Upon themselves. I have so needed love, I should have loved you but from gratitude, If you had let me.
Henrietta felt quite overcome with bodily indisposition as she proceeded homewards. Her hands were feverish, her temples throbbed with acute pain; she was wretched, but there was confusion in her thoughts; she seemed as if it were impossible to dwell on any one ​subject for even a moment. A dead weight was upon her spirits, they had been strained to the utmost. Intending to lie down at once, she began unfastening the glittering bands of her hair even while going up stairs; but her hands sank down, and she stood fixed on the threshold as she entered.
There sat Lord Marchmont; having broken open her writing-desk, he was looking over the letters; too well did his wife know what he would discover. The very epistle that he was reading she recognised at once. The contents ran thus:—
"You say that you despise your husband, that but for dislike you would forget his very existence: your high and generous nature avenges itself. It could have no sympathy with the true or the noble if it sympathised with him. The great fault of his character must be its extreme littleness. There is not room for the warm blood to circulate, for the loftier emotion to expand. You—so sensitive, so high-minded—what can you have in common with him?"
​ The rustle of Henrietta's dress drew his attention; he looked up, and saw her standing, pale and motionless, on the threshold.
"You are earlier than I expected, madam," exclaimed he, starting up, and leading, or rather dragging, her forward, "considering in what agreeable society I left you! I am sure my house is much honoured by your return; but you do not stay here long: I have a great mind to turn you into the streets to-night."
Henrietta felt sinking, but she did not faint; the worst was come, and there was that in herself which seemed to rise to meet it. In a better cause, what fortitude, what endurance, would have belonged to her nature! even humiliated, self-convicted as she felt, her native pride could not quite desert her. Still, the blood curdled at her heart, the lip trembled; but it could not yet force itself to speak.
"And so these pretty letters are addressed to my wife," continued Lord Marchmont; "a fine return for all my kindness! and to see, too, what you say of me! I always knew I was a great deal too good for you. But I'll ​tell you what, madam, all the town shall know of your infamous conduct; and you shall pass the rest of your life in a farm-house in the country."
"Ah! any miserable place," murmured Henrietta, "so that it be but solitude."
"Where you could receive Sir George Kingston: but I will take care to prevent that," interrupted he. "I overheard all your conversation to-night."
"If you overheard our conversation," exclaimed Lady Marchmont, "you overheard also my remorse. You know that, though imprudent, I am not guilty; and that I was myself about to break off a correspondence, whose fault, whose folly, none could feel more bitterly than I did myself."
"I heard all you said about me," interrupted Lord Marchmont, not the least attending to what she was saying. "I never knew such ingratitude! Look at your house, at your carriage; there was nothing in the world that you wanted."
"Yes," said Henrietta, "what you never ​gave me—a heart. Lord Marchmont, I have done wrong, very wrong: but you have been wrong also."
"Oh, yes! of course," cried he, "lay the blame upon me. It is a lucky thing that your uncle is dead, he would not like having you sent back disgraced on his hands."
"Thank God that he cannot know my shame and misery!" exclaimed the countess, while the mention of her uncle brought the tears to her eyes; but they were not allowed to fall, they only glistened on the eye-lash. "Lord Marchmont," continued she, "you yourself know that I am what is called innocent; but I do not for a moment extenuate the error I have committed. But I have some claims on your forbearance. Ask your own heart if it has ever shown to me that affection which is woman's best safety."
"How am I to be made answerable for the romantic nonsense which Sir George Kingston has put into your head?" asked he, angrily.
"Ah!" exclaimed she, "what I now urge ​I have felt ever since I arrived in London. You have never cared for me, or cautioned me against the many dangers which surrounded my vain and heedless career."
"How could I tell that you would turn out so badly?" again he asked.
"Lord Marchmont," cried Henrietta, "there is yet time to save me from utter wretchedness and crime. I am young, very young—forgive me, and my whole life shall be devoted to atone for the past, and to show my gratitude."
"And," answered he, with a sneer, "you will take care not to be found out next time."
"I do not deserve this," said she. "Lord Marchmont, at your feet, I implore your pardon!" and she knelt as she spoke: "give me but one proof of your confidence, and my whole life shall show it has not been given in vain."
"Madam," said he, throwing her from him, "you forget how glad I shall be to get rid of you." So saying, he left the room, and she heard him order supper as he went down stairs.
​ The fact was, that Lord Marchmont had long disliked his wife: he did not understand her wit, and he feared it. The very admiration she inspired, displeased him: it gave him an uncomfortable feeling as to her superiority.