"Am I to go alone?"
"Dear, I have much to do and cannot go; but you need fear nothing; I
shall send Ralph and Mrs. Prior with you, and the journey is soon over.
When will you go?"
It was the first time she had left me since I took her from Jean's arms,
and I longed to keep her always near me; but, remembering the task I had
to do, I felt that I must seem cold till she knew all.
"Soon,--very soon,--to-morrow;--let me go to-morrow, Sir. I long to be
away!" she cried, some swift emotion banishing the calmness of her usual
manner, as she rose, with eager eyes and a gesture full of longing.
"You shall go, Effie," was all I could say; and with no word of thanks,
she hastened away, leaving me so calm without, so desolate within.
The same eagerness possessed her all that day; and the next she went
away, clinging to me at the last as she had clung that night upon the
river-bank, as if her grateful heart reproached her for the joy she felt
at leaving my unhappy home.
A few days passed, bringing me the comfort of a few sweet lines from
Effie, signed "Your child." That sight reminded me, that, if I would do
an honest deed, it should be generously done. I read again the little
missive she had sent, and then I wrote the letter which might be my
last;--with no hint of my love, beyond the expression of sincerest
regard and never-ceasing interest in her happiness; no hint of Alfred
Vaughan; for I would not wound her pride, nor let her dream that any eye
had seen the passion she so silently surrendered, with no reproach to
me and no shadow on the name I had given into her keeping. Heaven knows
what it cost me, and Heaven, through the suffering of that hour, granted
me an humbler spirit and a better life.
It went, and I waited for my fate as one might wait for pardon or for
doom. It came at length,--a short, sad letter, full of meek obedience to
my will, of penitence for faults I never knew, and grateful prayers for
my peace.
My last hope died then, and for many days I dwelt alone, living over all
that happy year with painful vividness. I dreamed again of those fair
days, and woke to curse the selfish blindness which had hidden my best
blessing from me till it was forever lost.
How long I should have mourned thus unavailingly I cannot tell. A more
sudden, but far less grievous loss befell me. My fortune was nearly
swept away in the general ruin of a most disastrous year. This event
roused me from my despair and made me strong again,--for I must hoard
what could be saved, for Effie's sake. She had known a cruel want with
me, and she must never know another while she bore my name. I looked my
misfortune in the face and ceased to feel it one; for the diminished
fortune was still ample for my darling's dower, and now what need had I
of any but the simplest home?
Before another month was gone, I was in the quiet place henceforth to be
mine alone, and nothing now remained for me to do but to dissolve the
bond that made my Effie mine. Sitting over the dim embers of my solitary
hearth, I thought of this, and, looking round the silent room, whose
only ornaments were the things made sacred by her use, the utter
desolation struck so heavily upon my heart, that I bowed my head upon
my folded arms, and yielded to the tender longing that could not be
repressed.
The bitter paroxysm passed, and, raising my eyes, the clearer for that
stormy rain, I beheld Effie standing like an answer to my spirit's cry.
With a great start, I regarded her, saying, at length, in a voice that
sounded cold, for my heart leaped up to meet her, and yet must not
speak,--
"Effie, why are you here?"
Wraith-like and pale, she stood before me, with no sign of emotion but
the slight tremor of her frame, and answered my greeting with a sad
humility:--
"I came because I promised to cleave to you through health and sickness,
poverty and wealth, and I must keep that vow till you absolve me from
it. Forgive me, but I knew misfortune had befallen you, and, remembering
all you had done for me, came, hoping I might comfort when other friends
deserted you."
"Grateful to the last!" I sighed, low to myself, and, though deeply
touched, replied with the hard-won calmness that made my speech so
brief,--
"You owe me nothing, Effie, and I most earnestly desired to spare you
this."
Some sudden hope seemed born of my regretful words, for, with an eager
glance, she cried,--
"Was it that desire which prompted you to part from me? Did you think I
should shrink from sharing poverty with you who gave me all I own?"
"No, dear,--ah, no!" I said, "I knew your grateful spirit far too well
for that. It was because I could not make your happiness, and yet had
robbed you of the right to seek it with some younger and some better
man."
"Basil, what man? Tell me; for no doubt shall stand between us now!"
She grasped my arm, and her rapid words were a command.