But to William Mainwaring it was a very serious problem. He cared not a fig for social convention. It mattered not to him that if he married Nell, half the drawing rooms in the country would be closed to him. He had no particular wish to enter those drawing rooms. The only questions that did occupy his mind were whether or not he should marry her or whether marriage to him would be the best solution for Nell.
There was really little doubt about the first question. He owed her marriage. He had perhaps taken away her chances of making a decent marriage with any other man. At best, he had placed her in danger of being very severely punished by a future husband who would discover that he was not the first to use her. He could have paused at that point and made the firm decision to make Nell his wife. He would not suffer unduly from the marriage, even if his own happiness mattered in this decision. He liked her and found her attractive. What would it matter to him if he did not love her? It was not as if he expected someday to find a bride whom he could love.
But it was the second question that he pondered long. If she did love him, Nell would be happy to marry him. Her life would change a good deal, suddenly she would be able to have all the things she had only dreamed about. And he would enjoy spending money on her, seeing her childlike delight in the gifts he could give her. Yet was it certain that marriage to him would bring Nell happiness even if he could disguise the fact that he did not love her? Even if their social life was restricted, her life as his wife would be vastly different from anything she had known. And must he assume that the change would be all for the better? She would find the adjustment a gainful process no doubt. She had no training whatsoever for that life she would have to lead.
Marriage was for a long time. All else notwithstanding, it would not take Nell long, sensitive as she was, to realize that his feelings for her in no way matched hers for him. He would not be able to pretend for a lifetime.
And it was on this point that the whole decision hinged. Would the unhappiness of being married to someone one loved but who did not return that love be worse than that of being completely abandoned? A year ago he had pleaded with Elizabeth to marry him, even though she still loved Robert. He had enough love for both of them, he had assured her. And he had believed passionately what he had said. Now he was not so sure. If Robert had divorced her, and if she had married him, would it be torture now to be here with her, seeing her every day, loving her by night, knowing that her heart was somewhere off with her first husband?
For the first time, Mainwaring admitted to himself that he was probably far better off away from Elizabeth. It had been a bad year, but the worst of the pain had dulled. There was just the ache left, the knowledge that his whole life was spoiled by what had happened. But he pain would have been constantly present, the wound would have festered, if he had been daily in a position of intimacy with her.
He could not put Nell in that position, Nell was a free spirit. He would not be able to bear to see the light go out of her eyes and the spring from her step. He could not imprison her soul. She would suffer if he left her. In all probability, if her feelings ran deep, as he suspected they did, she would be badly hurt for a long time. But she would still be free at the end of it all. She would probably be a stronger person for the suffering.
There was only one thing that he could do. Much as he disliked having to uproot himself yet again, admit defeat once more, he must leave. If he stayed, he was not sure that he would have the strength to stay away from her. And even if he did, it seemed very possible that he would run into the girl in the village one day. Even the knowledge that he was still in residence would cause her unnecessary pain. He must leave and give her a chance to begin forgetting him.
He did wonder if it was the honorable and the compassionate thing to do to go to Nell the next day and tell her of his decision. He could imagine her perhaps going to the woods for several days before she heard of his departure, waiting for him to come. He could imagine her pain when she discovered that she had been abandoned without a word. He would look the biggest blackguard ever to walk this earth. But equally he could picture the scene if he faced her with the truth. Would she be saved any pain by his presence? Perhaps it would be worse. And, worst of all, perhaps his pity would overcome him and he would take her into his arms again. There was no saying what would happen if he did that. But the end result would still be the same.
There was not much rest that night either for Mainwaring, or for his servants. He wrote notes to all his acquaintances in the area, excusing himself for his hasty departure. He wrote longer letters of apology to the two families with whom he had accepted invitations. His servants packed his bags and prepared his curricle and his horses.
Thus it was that early the following morning William Mainwaring was on his way to Scotland, all but his heaviest trunks strapped to the back of his curricle. His heavier luggage was to be sent on later. It was with a heavy heart that he drove on until the landmarks became unfamiliar. This was a sordid and a shameful episode of his life, and he would not easily forget it. One's own unhappiness was easier to bear than the unhappiness one knew one had inflicted on someone else.
The family was already sitting down to dinner when Helen trailed into the dining room. She took her place without a word.
"Well, miss?" the earl said severely. "Is it customary in this house to come to the table whenever you feel like doing so?"
"I am sorry, Papa," she said. "I was busy thinking and I forgot the time. I did hurry as much as I could so that I would not be dreadfully late."
"Perhaps a removal to the schoolroom without any food or drink would teach you that punctuality is a virtue in this house," her father said.
"Yes, Papa," she replied, her eyes on her empty plate.
"And next time, child, that is exactly what will happen," the earl blustered, unnerved by the docility of his daughter.
"And where were you this afternoon, Helen?" her mother wanted to know. "You know very well that I asked specifically that you drive to your Aunt Sophie's with your sisters and me. It was Cousin Matilda's birthday, and it was only fitting that we all go to wish her a happy birthday."
"I am sorry, Mama," Helen said. "I forgot. I went for a walk."
"There have been altogether too many walks since spring arrived this year," the countess said in exasperation. "Papa and I have been very patient. We know that you are rather strange, child, and that you seem to need to be on your own more than Emily and Melissa. But, really, at your age, you must begin to take an interest in your social duties. If you cannot limit the walks to afternoons when we have nothing else planned, I shall really have to forbid you altogether to leave the house unaccompanied."
"Yes, Mama," Helen answered meekly.
Really, she did not feel like arguing with anyone. She felt mortally depressed, though she had told herself for the past two hours that she was overreacting. William had not been there this afternoon. There was nothing so strange about that. He felt his social obligations, even if she did not feel hers. He was very popular in the neighborhood. Doubtless he had other engagements for the afternoon. She could not expect to see him every day. Tomorrow he would be there.