A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING
“Anglesea watched me closely, as if in anxiety to see how much this
suspense and uncertainty might affect my health and spirits. And I think
he was surprised and pleased to discover that I was not distressed by
the situation.
“It was on the eighth day after my letter had been dispatched that the
subject of that letter was first mentioned. It was I who first spoke of
it.
“Anglesea came in to make his usual morning call.
“After our greetings were over, and we had sat down, I said to him:
“‘It is now more than a week since I wrote to Saviola. I have now no
longer the faintest hope of receiving an answer to my letter. I shall
not wait here longer. I shall leave Geneva to-morrow.’
“‘I never supposed for a moment that you would ever hear from him again.
I knew, in fact, that it was impossible for you to do so; but I wished
you to prove the question to yourself,’ he gravely replied.
“‘You knew it! I thought that you inferred it!’ I exclaimed.
“‘My inference amounted to moral conviction; moral conviction to
positive knowledge.’
“I did not answer him. I scarcely understood him.
“‘What do you propose to do, Elfrida?’ he inquired, gravely and tenderly
taking my hand, and then adding: ‘Whatever it may be, you see me here
ready to stand by you, to counsel and assist you to the utmost of my
ability.’
“‘Oh! I thank you, Angus!—I thank you with all my heart and soul! You
are indeed a friend and brother raised up to me in the time of need!’
“‘I see—I hope I see clearly—that you are wasting no vain regrets on the
man who is unworthy of your thoughts,’ he said, with a strange look that
puzzled me, coming from him. I cannot define the look; I had never seen
such a one on his face before, and it troubled me; I answered him:
“‘I am not grieving as you see; but we will not talk of Saviola; he is
my husband after all, you know.’
“‘Ah!’ he said, in a sort of equivocal tone that again disturbed me.
“‘What shall you do now, Elfrida?—after leaving Geneva, I mean?’ he next
inquired.
“‘I shall go at once to England, cross over to Ireland, and take up my
abode at Weirdwaste, where I lived so long before that fatal visit to
Brighton.’
“‘To—Weirdwaste!’ he exclaimed, in some surprise.
“‘Yes. It is a poor old manor, but it is my own property in right of my
mother, and I shall come into full possession of it as soon as I am of
age.’
“‘But—to that wild, dreary, solitary home, where you spent so many
lonely, secluded, unhappy years. And of which you complained to your
brother and myself so bitterly?’
“‘Yes. It seemed all that you have described it to be to my wilful and
impatient childhood and youth, when I longed to see and know the world.
I have seen and known enough, and more than enough, of the world, and
now my thoughts turn to Weirdwaste and its quiet life as a haven of
rest.’
“‘My poor Elfrida! You would wear your young heart out in such a
solitude!’
“‘No; I would not. I should have my child to occupy and interest me; and
I shall have the poor on the estate to look after.’
“‘These duties could not fill your heart, Elfrida. You would languish
into melancholia or death. Listen, Elfrida—dearest Elfrida! You talked
of that wild seacoast manor house as a haven of rest. It would not be
so. It would be to you as a desert, a prison, an exile. See, Elfrida!
Here is your true haven of rest!’ he said, bending toward me with a look
that sent all the blood rushing to my head and face.
“‘What do you mean? Where?’ I cried, in alarm, though I did not
understand his meaning.
“‘Here!’ he exclaimed, striking his breast and then extending both hands
toward me—‘Here! in my love!—in my arms!—in my bosom! Oh, Elfrida!
accept the life’s devotion of one who adores you, and who will gladly
consecrate all his days to your happiness!’
“I could no longer misunderstand him; nor could I speak for amazement
and indignation. He took advantage of my silence to pour out the
malebolge of his revolting passion before me.
“At last, with a great effort, I conquered the speechless panic into
which his insults had thrown me, and my wrath and shame burst forth in
strong and fiery words.
“I ordered him from my presence; but he did not go. I called him hard
names—a snake in the grass—a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a traitor, a
hypocrite.
“He did not reply; he stood up before me and took it all, devouring me
with his eyes, while his tongue was silent.
“At length, my paroxysm of violence broke down in tears, and I wept in
bitter anguish.
“‘Although I am forsaken, yet still I am a wife!’ I said; ‘though my
husband has left me, yet still he is my husband.’
“These words gave him the opportunity he now wanted.
“I had sunk down in my chair and covered my face with my hands.
“He came up to me, laid his hand on the back of my chair, and dropping
his voice to the lowest tones of reverential sympathy, he said these
terrible words:
“‘No, Elfrida! No, my poor child! It breaks my heart to tell you the
truth, that I have only recently learned to my dismay; but you must hear
it sooner or later. Better to hear it kindly, tenderly told by a
friend’s tongue than harshly and suddenly by a wordling’s or an enemy’s.
No, Elfrida! You are no wife.’
“‘Saviola is dead, then!’ I exclaimed, in an access of excitement.
“‘No, Elfrida; that is not what I mean. You are no wife, because—you
never have been.’
“I lifted my head and gazed on him in dumb horror and amazement.
“He met my look with one of deepest sorrow and commiseration.
“‘It is false!’ I cried, as soon as I could speak. ‘It is foully,
cruelly false!’
“‘I would to Heaven it were!’ he sighed. ‘I would to Heaven it were!’
“There was something in his look and tone that seemed to force truth and
despair into my soul. Had my marriage ceremony been unlawful,
notwithstanding Anglesea’s pretended carefulness? Or what had happened?
How had I been betrayed? I struggled not to believe him—not to question
him; but I could not help doing both.
“‘Why do you say such—such——’ I had no word strong enough to utter my
thought.
“He answered me as if I had done so:
“‘Because I must, Elfrida. I came to Geneva for that purpose. I came
from Saviola, charged with a message to you.’ He ceased.
“‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Go on,’ I was at that moment almost insane. It took
all my power of self-control to keep still.
“‘I met him in Paris two weeks ago. He told me that he was on the eve of
marriage with Mademoiselle de la Villemonte, daughter of the Duc de la
Villemonte; that he had not the courage to write and break his
connection with you, especially as such writing would be dangerous. It
might bring you on to Paris to try to prevent it, which would be
awkward. So, he prayed me to take his farewell message to you. I will
not insult you, Elfrida, by giving his message.’
“‘Yes! Give it! Do not spare me!’ I cried out in my agony.
“‘Then it was to the effect that he was obliged by circumstances to part
with you, but that as soon as he could command the fortune he was to
receive with Mademoiselle de la Villemonte, he would make a suitable
provision for you and your child.’
“‘You heard him say that? You, my brother’s friend! And you did not slay
him on the spot!’ I cried, with all my blood on fire.
“‘My dear Elfrida, my scorn, contempt and indignation might have led me
to knock the villain down and trample him to death. But, my child, we
are all living in civilized Europe and in the nineteenth century, and
our education teaches us to subdue the wild beast that is within us.
Besides, I had you to think of. If I should slay Saviola and be cast
into prison, who would take care of you? Your father and brother, even
your old pastor and doctor, were away in the Canaries, and you had not a
friend in the world near you.’
“‘And I have not now!’ I cried, in bitter despair.
“‘Do not say that, Elfrida. I lay my life at your feet!’
“‘No more of that! Your every word insults me! And you could come here
with a false face and let me write to that man and never tell me what
you have only told me now!’
“‘My dear Elfrida! Could I burst upon you suddenly with news that, for
aught I then knew, might have killed you on the spot, or maddened you
for life? No, none but a brute could have done so. I had to feel my way;
to lead you slowly up to the truth; to strengthen you to bear it. That
is why I allowed you to write to Saviola and to wait for a letter from
him. That is why I watched your every tone and look. While doing so I
perceived that your happiness did not depend on your union with
Saviola.’
“‘Tell me this!’ I burst out, almost furiously. ‘How was it that you,
who went ostensibly to guard me against misadventure, became accessory
to some deception which rendered that marriage rite performed between me
and Saviola of no legal effect? Tell me this, oh, traitor and
hypocrite!’”