PRETENDED CONSOLATION
“In the evening Anglesea called on me again.
“His manner was full of the most respectful sympathy. He was my
brother’s dearest friend. He had acted in my father’s and my brother’s
absence as my own best friend; and, since he could not prevent my
romantic escapade, he had attended me in the character of a guardian, to
see that no fatal mistake was made through Saviola’s ignorance of
national laws and customs. Therefore, I had every reason to trust in him
and confide in him as in an elder brother.
“I was alone, in the little drawing room, when he entered. I received
him as warmly, though more gravely, than when he had called at noon.
“When we were seated I asked him—as I would have asked my
brother—whether my husband had really, finally abandoned me.
He looked searchingly into my face, as if to see how I would be likely
to take his answer.
Finding in my expression no very distressing anxiety, but simply a wish
to know the truth, he replied:
“‘Saviola has disappointed us all. If I were not speaking to you I
should say that he is scarcely worthy of thought, still less of regret.’
“‘But—are you sure? Has he really and finally abandoned me?’ I repeated.
“‘He has.’
“‘You are sure of this?’
“‘I am.’
His words and tones were grave, sweet and compassionate.
“‘Where is he now?’ I next inquired.
“‘In Paris.’
“‘I must write to him again, then,’ I said, with the idea that, although
I no longer loved or respected the man, he was my husband, and to write
to him was my duty. ‘I will—will write to him to-night.’
“‘You may do so,’ he said, gravely and tenderly. ‘Nay, I would even
counsel you to do so for the relief of your own mind, and that you may
never have the slightest cause for self-reproach. But I warn you that it
will have no effect whatever upon Saviola. He will not answer your
letter.’
“‘He has not answered any letter of mine since he left for Paris. But,
surely, if I write and ask him, plainly, whether he ever means to return
to me, and beg him to reply, so that I may know what to do, he will
answer.’
“‘No, he will not. But, to satisfy yourself, write to him at once. Then
you will know, Elfrida!’”
“In the days when we three—Anglesea, my brother and myself were as
intimate and familiar as the children of one house—he had followed suit
with Francis and called me by my Christian name, and sometimes by its
abbreviation. I had liked it then, and I liked it now, though this was
the first time, since my marriage, that he had given it to me.
“‘Yes, I will write to-night. I will write at once,’ I said.
“‘Then I will bid you good-evening. There is a mail that closes at
eleven o’clock. If I leave you now you may be able to secure it,’ he
said, rising.
“‘Thank you, Angus. Come again to-morrow,’ I said, using the name I had
been accustomed to give him when he was the daily and beloved companion
of my brother and myself.
“He took my hand, bowed over it and left the room.
“Then I sat down to my desk to write the letter to Saviola in Paris.
“I did not reproach him, nor lament his absence, nor write in any way
unkindly or sorrowfully to him. I simply reminded him how long he had
been gone; how many letters I had written that remained unanswered, and
then inquired whether he meant to return to me, and if so, when? I ended
by telling him that my little son and myself were in good health, and
begging him to answer me to the point that I might know what to do. So I
left him at perfect liberty to act for himself.
“When I had sealed and directed this letter I rang and dispatched it to
the hotel bag that left the house at a quarter to eleven.
“Then I went to bed.
“My child usually slept with his nurse in a little room off my
bedchamber. But now I called her to bring the baby to me; and I took him
into bed and drew him to my bosom, finding comfort in the thought that
my child would never desert me, and that no one on earth had power to
take him from me. What a soothing balm that little form was pressed to
my heart.
“I lay awake nearly all that night, not with trouble or anxiety, but
with thoughts and plans for the future of my child and myself.
“I had made up my mind. If I should get no answer from Saviola I would
make ready and leave Switzerland for Ireland. I would go with my child
to Weirdwaste, which was my own, and live there as I had lived before
the fatal journey to Brighton. I would live among my warm-hearted Irish
tenants, who, poor as my forefathers had been for generations, had never
been oppressed, but always helped to the extent of our power. They had
loved my mother, had loved me for her sake, and they would now welcome
and love my child, who would be the heir of Weirdwaste, if of nothing
more.
“I would live at Weirdwaste until the return of my father, when I would
confess all my faults and follies to him, and appeal to his affection
for forgiveness and protection.
“In two years and a few months I should be of age, and should enter into
the full possession of my poor, old estate.
“I should live there always, and bring up my boy to be a Christian
gentleman and a good and wise landlord.
“The excellent vicar should be his tutor and look after his education,
and the amiable doctor should be his physician and look after his
health.
“Francis, my dear brother, would visit me often, I felt sure. My father
would come sometimes. These were all I really cared to see.
“We should be happy—my little son and I—in spite of all that had passed.
He would never, from his father’s example, grow up to become a gambler,
a wine bibber, or an adventurer. He should be trained to become an honor
to his name and a blessing to his tenantry.
“Thinking these pleasant thoughts I fell asleep at last and realized all
my anticipations—in my dreams!
“The next day, and every day for a week, Angus Anglesea came to see me.
“He no longer spoke of Saviola; but he talked to me of my dear brother,
his own dearest friend—a theme of which I never tired. He told me that
his ardent studies at Eton had overtasked his strength. His physicians
recommended a long vacation, and a total change of air and scene.
Therefore, he accompanied his father and stepmother to the Canaries—Dr.
Alexander and the Rev. Dr. Clement, of Weirdwaste, attending the party,
as traveling physician and private tutor.
“‘So,’ said I, ‘that is the reason why none of my letters addressed to
my old friends at Weirdwaste were ever answered. But since the vicar and
the doctor were conscripted for foreign service, who, may I ask, was
left to take charge of the souls and bodies of the poor people at
Weirdwaste?’
“‘My child, clergymen and physicians are as plenty as wild berries. A
curate without a parish and a doctor without a practice were easily
found to fill the places of the hard-worked and badly paid old vicar and
doctor, who needed rest and change about as much as any of the traveling
party.’
“‘So all my friends are in the Canaries!’
“‘Except myself, Elfrida. I am here, and I will remain near you, to
guard you as an elder brother, until your fate is decided.’
“‘A girl’s fate is supposed to be decided when she is married, but that
does not take into account the possibility of her desertion by her
husband,’ I replied, but without any bitterness of feeling.
“‘No,’ he admitted, very gravely—‘no, because such possibilities are as
exceptional as they are tragical. But take courage, Elfrida. As I was
your brother’s truest friend and brother, so I will be yours, to remain
near you, to guard you and assist you as long as you may need me.’
“‘Thank you, Angus! Oh, thank you! I am glad that all my family and
friends are in the Canaries, since it is so good for them to be there.
And I am glad—oh! so glad that you are here, Angus! I do not feel quite
alone and helpless now that you are here. It is very good of you to say
that you will remain near me until something is settled. But will not
your doing so interfere with some of your previous engagements?’
“‘Not with any,’ he replied. ‘I am an idle man. And even if it were not
so—even if I were over head and ears in business—I should let all go in
order to be of service to my dear friend’s sister in her need. And
believe me, Elfrida, I find the greatest happiness in serving you.’
“His generous devotion moved me to tears. I thanked him in the most
earnest words at my command.
“The week passed, and no letter came from Saviola. I was not
disappointed, for now I scarcely expected to get one. I reconciled
myself to my fate as a forsaken wife all the more cheerfully for my
child’s sake, who would be thus saved from the baleful effects of his
father’s evil example.
“The week passed, and though no letter came from Saviola, no word on the
subject was spoken between Anglesea and myself.”