AWAKENING
There is not in this world of sin
A soul so deeply sunk therein,
Thronged though it be with crimes and cares,
Revenges, malices, despairs,
However dire the phantoms there,
However pestilent its air—
But in its thoroughfares, night and day,
There ever is some golden ray,
Like a sweet child from home astray—
Some light of Heaven, some fragment thence
Of primal love and innocence,
Which keeps the angels on its track
To lure and win and lead it back.
—WM. H. HOLCOMBE.
“We lived at the best hotels in every town and city where we stopped,
but we never stayed long at any place. Saviola was too successful a
gambler for that.
“He was always kind to me, and would have loaded me with jewels and
costly dress, but that I would have none of them, for my soul was
troubled by the way in which he made his money—a way that he no longer
tried to conceal from me.
“I had periodical fits of homesickness, during which I wrote to my
father and to my teachers, but without in any instance receiving a
reply. Then I would write again and again, with no better result. And
finally I would give up hoping to hear from them, and try to resign
myself to my fate; until my next attack of homesickness would set my pen
in motion again.
“Later on, not homesickness alone, but remorse and despair and terror
seized me. I was beginning to lose all hope of ever being forgiven by my
father; and, ah me! I was also beginning to lose esteem for my husband,
for whose sake I had left all my friends and relations.
“Luigi was still fond of me in that way that a child is fond of a
favorite toy of which he is not yet tired.
“I had discovered my own self-deception.
“Other young girls have come to grief and death through their deception
by others. I had only myself to blame! Myself had only deceived me. But
it was bitter! oh, how bitter! to find out that the hero, martyr,
patriot and humanitarian I had imagined, was only a very handsome young
gambler, who was not too honest or truthful!
“My undeceived soul sickened at him and at myself!
“My very last attack of homesickness found us at Geneva, where we had an
elegant suit of apartments in the Hotel Beau Rivage.
“Again in one day I wrote five letters to absent friends—to my father,
to Miss Murray, to Madame de la Champe, to Dr. Alexander, and to the
Rev. Mr. Clement. From some of these I should surely get an answer. But
week after week passed and no answer came to me.
“In the second month after our arrival at Geneva, Saviola was suddenly
called to Paris—on imperative business, he said; but I had learned to
distrust. I could not accompany him—my state of health utterly precluded
the idea of my traveling. He took a very affectionate leave of me, and
promised to be back again in a few days.
“‘A few days’ is a vague term! Yet I was not disturbed by that. He left
me, and I never saw his face again.
“Just one week after he went away my child was born—a boy. I was very
healthy, and had a rapid convalescence, notwithstanding the suspense and
anxiety I was suffering on account of my father.
“I wrote to Luigi—to the address he had given me—and informed him of the
event. But I received no reply to my letter. Yet, I got better every
day, and I took great comfort and delight in my child. Also, I daily
expected the return of Saviola to answer my letter in person—for I
remembered that he hated to write, and was therefore one of the very
worst correspondents in the world.
“But I was disappointed. Day followed day, week succeeded week, and I
neither saw nor heard from Saviola, nor received any answers to any
letter written to my father and friends.
“I knew that my father must long have left the archipelago, but I
supposed that he must have—as usual—left orders for any letters that
might come for him after his departure to be forwarded to his new
address; so, though I had expected delay, I had not anticipated final
disappointment.
“It was now the first of October, and many tourists were leaving the
lake. Saviola had left me amply provided with funds, so that I had no
fear of embarrassment, especially as I was very economical, only
applying the ill-gotten money to my barest necessities. Besides, I had
my boy, so that I was able to wait quite cheerfully the return of my
husband.
“Ah me! It was not Saviola that I was troubled about. It was my father.
At length it occurred to me to write to my father’s London bankers to
inquire for him. And I wondered that I had never thought of doing so
before.
“On this occasion I received a prompt answer, which was at once
encouraging and depressing, as you will see, contradictory as the
statement seems. Messrs. Rhodes told me that the earl had taken the
countess to the Canaries for her ladyship’s health, and that they had
wintered there, but that in May they had sailed for an extensive
yachting cruise, from which they were expected to return to England some
time in February.
“So my father could never have received any of my letters, and was
therefore not the unbending, unforgiving, pitiless father I had thought
him. He had probably written me many letters whose final destination was
the dead-letter office. I might still hope for his ready forgiveness. So
far the news was encouraging.
“But, then, on the other hand, he would not return until February. This
was the depressing feature in the letter. Yet the encouraging
circumstances outweighed the depressing item, so that, on the whole, I
was more hopeful and more cheerful.
“As the days of October grew shorter and cooler I began to be impatient
to leave the place, and for this reason eager for the return of Saviola.
At length I grew really despondent. It was about this time—the middle of
October—that I saw in the little Geneva paper an item that startled and
delighted me. It was under the head of ‘Arrivals.’ It was but a line:
“‘The Hon. Angus Anglesea, England—Hotel des Bergues.’
“Without an instant’s delay I sat down and wrote a note, asking him to
call on me at the Beau Rivage.
“The thought of meeting one home face—and that the face of my brother’s
dear friend, Saviola’s good friend, my own true friend, who had traveled
with us to Scotland to see that I should be regularly married before he
left me under the protection of Saviola—filled my soul with delightful
anticipations.
“He came promptly in response to my summons. It was only noon when the
waiter opened the door of the little drawing room where I sat, and
announced:
“‘The Hon. Mr. Anglesea.’
“I sprang up and held out both my hands to welcome him.
“He raised one to his lips, bowed over it, and said:
“‘I hope I find you well, madame.’
“‘Oh! I am so glad—so glad to see you!’ I exclaimed, at random.
“He took a seat.
“I sank into my easy chair, my heart beating with excitement, with
tumult, only to see the face of a friend.
“‘I am very happy to come to you,’ he said. ‘I hope Saviola is well,’ he
added—dubiously, as I thought.
“‘He is always well,’ I replied. ‘He is in Paris.’
“‘You hear from him daily, of course?’
“‘No. He is a poor correspondent. I shall not hear from him until I see
him, I fear.’
“He looked very grave, but made no comment.
“I hastened to ask him if he knew where my father then was.
“His reply confirmed the bankers news—the truth of which, by the way, I
had never doubted.
“He said that my father was wintering in the Canaries for the sake of
the countess’ health, and that Viscount Glennon, my brother, was with
them.
“This was the reason, then, why I had never heard from my brother.
“Mr. Anglesea appeared preoccupied while he spoke. Then, after a short
silence, he said:
“‘Ah, madame, pray do not consider me impertinent. Believe me, I speak
only in your own interests——’
“‘As you acted when you went to Scotland with us,’ I added.
“‘Precisely, Madame la Princesse.’
“‘Then speak freely, Mr. Anglesea. I shall not take offense.’
“‘Then I wish to inquire when you last heard from Luigi Saviola.’
“I hated to answer that question—to confess the many days that had
elapsed since I had seen or heard from my husband. Yet I answered:
“‘I have not heard from him since he left here for Paris, six weeks
ago.’
“‘Ah!’ he said, very gravely.
“‘But I expect to see him soon,’ I added.
“‘Indeed!’ he exclaimed, in surprise.
“‘Yes, indeed. Of course. Why not?’ I demanded, in astonishment.
“He was silent.
“‘Why not?’ I again demanded, uneasily.
“He looked grave.
“‘What do you mean, Mr. Anglesea?’ I exclaimed, anxiously.
“‘Ah, madame!’ he sighed. ‘You know so little of the world! So little of
the world!’
“‘Mr. Anglesea, you distress me. Has anything happened to Saviola?’
“‘Ah, madame, you were but a child when you went off to marry the
Italian. I—knowing full well that I could not prevent that mad act which
was sure to take place—went with you, for your sake, for your brother,
my friend’s sake, to prevent any fatal error from being committed. I
thought I had prevented calamity to you. I know better now. Ah, yes!’
“‘Mr. Anglesea,’ I said, ‘you frighten me. What has happened? I implore
you to tell me.’
“‘Not now! I cannot! But do not be alarmed! Take courage! I am your
friend! I will see you through this trouble.’
“‘No! you must tell me—now! Has—has—has——’ I could scarcely bear to put
the question; but I nerved myself to do it. ‘Has Luigi left me—deserted
me?’ And I sank back and covered my burning face with my hands.
“‘How shall I answer your question, madame? But put the question rather
to your own intelligence. He left here six weeks ago. He has not
returned or written to you since. Any one less youthful, innocent and
inexperienced than yourself would draw inferences from these
circumstances. Will you excuse me now? I will see you this evening. May
I?’
“‘Yes,’ I answered, mechanically.
“He bowed and left the room.
“I was alone again. I wished to be alone to collect my thoughts. It had
never occurred to me that Saviola would desert me—never!
“He had ceased to be my king, my hero, my idol. He had revealed himself
to be a gambler, a sharper, an adventurer. I had long ceased to love,
trust, or respect him. Still, I knew that he was fond of me, in his way,
and so I never imagined that he could forsake me. And, now that the
possibility was presented to me, it filled me with more wonder than
sorrow or mortification.
“I was not nearly so much troubled by the possible desertion of Saviola
as I had been by the long silence and fancied implacability of my
father. I was sorry for Saviola only because, though I had ceased to
love, or trust, or respect the man, I had begun to compassionate him. He
seemed so much weaker than I was.
“With this feeling of pity and regret was mingled one of intense relief.
I had so little to lose in losing the man whose life was a constant
source of shame and fear to me! But, whatever he may have been, his rank
was unquestionable. I had been lawfully married to him, and I was the
Princess Saviola. And my son was Prince Rolando Saviola. No one could
deprive us of these old and honorable, though now empty, titles.
“I soon reconciled myself to my desertion, even if I did not rejoice in
my deliverance. I made up my mind to take my child and go directly to
Weirdwaste, my own inheritance from my mother, and there await my
father’s return to England; then confess the whole truth to him and
throw myself upon his love and his protection.
“But, ah, Heaven! I did not yet know the worst!”