Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
would say he was marrying her for her money. . . I won’t call it an escape for Phyllida, because that always sounds so spiteful. But I will allow no one to say I made him throw her over so that I might keep her for my own boy!
I want you to tell me frankly how much you have heard. Literally nothing? Then you will—the very next time you go to the Hall. Not satisfied with inventing this abominable story, Phyllida feels it her duty to inflict it upon any one who will listen. But you must have seen about the divorce? Not even that? Well, you are wise; these things are unsavoury reading. The case was tried in the summer—“Spenworth’s washing-day”, as my boy called it—, and the decree will be made absolute in a few weeks’ time.
It is the fashion to say that my brother-in-law was more sinned against than sinning. Does not that formula always put you on your guard, so to say? He was a mere boy when he succeeded to the title; an immense estate like Cheniston offered too many temptations; his good looks made him a prey for all the harpies; he was too kindly ever to say “no” even to the most dissolute of his associates. And so forth and so on. . . Goodness me! Arthur—my husband—was two years younger; and, if his old father’s iniquitous will did not
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