# The Semi-attached Couple/Chapter 32

CHAPTER XXXII
Not a word passed during the Monday between the Teviots, except on the most ordinary subjects. Helen hoped they were not to part on such bad terms, and wondered whether they were to write to each other. She would have been glad to forgive and forget his unkindness about her sister if he had wished it, and altogether was decidedly in favour of gliding back to peace and amity without explanation. But he did not take by any means this commonplace view of the subject: sometimes he had a glimmering idea that he might have been the aggressor in their quarrels; but that was only a momentary delusion. In general he saw clearly that he was the most unfortunate being on earth; that his wife hated him; that her family were his bitterest enemies; that he was driven from home by the unparalleled unhappiness of his daily life; and that this was the more provoking, because he happened to be a model husband, and certainly had loved Helen, though her marked preference of every living creature, from her father to her lap-dog, made it justifiable, indeed incumbent on him to give up caring about her. So much for his domestic life. As for his future prospects, they were of the gloomiest description. He knew many people thought his position enviable, and, indeed, there might be an appearance of prosperity in his lot. And he happened to have naturally the most marked and decided dispositions for enjoyment: he claimed no merit on that score, they were born with him; but Helen had blasted all this. It was entirely her doing. If she had shown one spark of ​affection for him, he should have stayed at home, the happiest of men; as it was, he was absolutely driven into exile. It was all very well to call it a mission, he called it banishment. As for coming back in six weeks, it was much more likely that he should not come back at all: he should certainly go on to Greece or Egypt. Timbuctoo seemed to be an interesting place; he should rather like to go there, just to see if Helen would think it worth while to be surprised. As for their ever being reconciled, that was out of the question; in fact, there was no quarrel; they were merely two people who did not suit each other, and so would be happier apart; and this being settled, he did the most unwise thing he could do. He sought out Lady Portmore, and made her the confidante of his fancied griefs. This was an attention that charmed her. She pitied him, told him that she had always dreaded his discovering what she had seen from the first, and had been kindly hinting to him ever since, that Helen did not care for him, and was not suited to him.
"She is your wife, my dear Teviot, so I have no right to speak; but from my heart I pity you. You require a wife who can understand your great qualities. You know I never flatter you, but there is really hardly a man of your standing who can be compared to you in talent, agreeableness, in everything that promises distinction; and then to see Helen so blind to all this; it is provoking; and I am foolishly warm where my friends are concerned. My advice to you is to go; absence may do much. She will miss you, miss the importance of her present position, for she prizes that; and perhaps she will grow wiser as she grows older. And in the meanwhile, my dear Teviot, trust to me for entering thoroughly into your interests. I ought not to say it, above all to you, but I know what it is to be linked to a being utterly incapable of entering into one's feelings. To no one but you could I trust myself on this ​point; but you know what Lord Portmore is"; and thereupon Lady Portmore launched into a sea of all poor Lord Portmore's little stupidities, with which every one of her male friends were indulged in their turn, and which at this moment interested Teviot, as he wanted to find out that all the world were as unhappy as himself.
Lady Portmore succeeded in hardening his heart against Helen, and the day—their last day—drew to a close without a word of kindness, regret, or reconciliation. Late in the evening, Helen, driven into action by desperation, went up to her husband and Lady Portmore, who were seated in earnest conversation, and, sitting down by them, asked Lady Portmore if she meant to go early the next morning; and then, turning to Lord Teviot, asked him the same question. On his reply in the affirmative, she said kindly, "Then can I speak to you for five minutes now, as you may not have time in the morning to give me your last orders?"
"I shall leave written directions about my letters, and Griffiths knows all that is to be done here."
"There is nothing like written directions to prevent mistakes," said Lady Portmore; "I always leave a positive book with my porter. But to return to this courier I want you to take—" and they resumed their conversation.
Helen looked disappointed, but retained her seat. Mary Forrester had watched her from the work-table at which she was sitting, and saw she was in need of assistance. She glanced round, but had not the heart to disturb Ernest and Eliza, who were also taking their last talk. These finales to a large party are full of sentiment and deep pathos. Mary had only one resource, as she did not choose to take Colonel Stuart into her counsels on this or any other subject; so she walked boldly up to Lord Beaufort, who was writing letters at the end of the room, and said, "Cannot you show Lady Portmore now the print you mentioned?" ​She directed his eyes to the group in the distance, and added, "She is very much in your sister's way."
Lord Beaufort wanted no further explanation. He was as anxious as Miss Forrester could be that Lord and Lady Teviot should come to some explanation before they parted, for their estrangement was palpable to all eyes; so he immediately went to Lady Portmore and, offering her his arm, said, "Come, I am going to carry you off forcibly; you must not leave St. Mary's without seeing this picture, which I think has a great look of you." She could not resist this piece of flattery, and went with him. Lord Teviot rose to follow them, but Helen laid her hand on his arm, and said, "No, you cannot refuse me a few minutes on this our last evening."
"I am at your orders," he said coldly.
"Teviot, we surely are not to part on these terms. Do not go without a kind word or look—I cannot bear it."
"I beg your pardon, I do not think I quite understand your grievance. There was no necessity for our parting at all; but you decided that we should, and I can imagine no two people less called upon to affect any grief on that score. Can I do anything for you in London?"
She turned very pale, and said, "Let me go with you that far, even if you will not let me go to Lisbon."
"Thank you, no; I shall be very much hurried, and you, you know, are going home."
"I was wrong when I said that—I knew it at the time; but I was hurt by what you and Lady Portmore said, and I spoke in anger. Teviot, my home is with you."
"I fear it has not been a happy one, but all that is over now; discussions can do no good. I have no doubt you will be very happy when you are with those you love, and as for me, allow me to take care of myself Any life that I make out for myself will be better than that I have led lately. Have you anything more to say?"
​There was no answer; she attempted to rise, but sank back, and faintly murmured—"Nothing."
He looked at her for the first time, and was shocked at her ghastly appearance and fixed look of suffering. "Are you ill, Helen?" he said.
"Do not speak to me, I cannot bear any more cruel words. I must go to my own room, I cannot stay here with all these people looking on. Let me go———" and again she tried to rise.
"But you must let me assist you: take my arm, Helen."
"No, no; I must be alone."
"You shall be alone, but you cannot go by yourself, Helen. I will leave you when I have seen you safe to your room."
She had not energy to dispute the point: all she felt was a strong desire to be alone, and a certainty that she could not reach her room without assistance. He led her to it, supporting her trembling steps in silence. She disengaged her arm, and, waving her hand to him to leave her, rushed towards the ottoman, and, flinging herself on it, burst into a flood of tears. She sobbed like a child, and with the young passionate resentment of a child whose attempt to "make it up and be friends" has been misrepresented and repulsed. And as no resentment in her own heart was sufficiently powerful to give her any insight into the latent motives of Lord Teviot's violence, terror and helplessness were the chief consequences produced by his inexplicable language, accompanied by a sense of suffering under extreme injustice.
The relief of tears she had never before in her short, sunny life experienced to this extreme degree. She absolutely revelled in them, ignorant that her husband was a witness to her grief, till the sight of her sorrow overpowered him; and as he flung himself down by her side she heard him beseeching her to be calm and to forgive him, and to ​forget what he had said. "Say you forgive me, my poor Helen; I cannot bear to see you cry, and to feel that I have made you so unhappy. I am a violent, unfeeling wretch, and I know that I say a thousand things that I do not mean when I am angry:" and then followed all those inarticulate soothings and caresses which are so efficacious and healing after a quarrel. Then he persuaded her to look at him, and to see how sorry he was; and he brought a glass of water, and supported her while she drank it. And though they both abstained from any allusion to the original cause of their disagreement,—perhaps neither of them knew exactly what it was,—there was much concession on his part, and she had the comfort of thinking that they would now part on friendly terms. He advised her not to return to the drawing-room that evening, and tried in every way to quiet her shaken nerves. He told her St. Mary's would always be kept in readiness for her, and that Teviot House should be prepared for her in case she wished to be in London; and that he hoped she would at all events meet him there on his return. He gave the most minute directions with respect to her letters, and begged her to write constantly; "and you will be sure to give me a particular account of Sophia," he added in a tone of deep humility.
"Thank you," she said dejectedly, "you are very good." She thought he was speaking only with the view of quieting her, and not from his heart. The tears still strayed slowly down her cheeks, and she looked so pale that at last Lord Teviot bethought himself of ringing for Tomkinson, and of putting the case into her hands. It was a charming spectacle for her, and quite overthrew her system of "my lord's good-for-nothingness."
"You never saw such a flustration as my lord was in," she afterwards told Mrs. Nelson, "just because her ladyship took on so, and got a little nervous on account of his lordship being obliged to go on that Portugee business; and he called ​to me quite sharp for the sal-volatile, and my keys were mislaid somehow—that always is the way with keys when they are wanted; and there was my lord holding my lady's hands and kissing them, which was distressing for me; but I did not look that way much. Indeed, I was rummaging for those keys, and when I brought the sal-volatile my lord gave it to her hisself, and my lord and me agreed that the best thing for me to do was to get her ladyship to bed; and my lord said, 'You had better stay by her, Mrs. Tomkins.' To be sure it is very strange he cannot learn my name; but anyhow I am satisfied about him and my lady, and I suppose he will find out I am called Tomkinson at last, and then everything will be as it should," which was a cheerful prospect to end with.