A SHOCK
“‘Prince Luigi Saviola.’
“He stared at me in surprise, in distress.
“‘Prince Luigi Saviola!’ he echoed, without withdrawing his fixed gaze
from my face.
“‘Yes, dear father,’ I answered, wondering at the emotion, or rather at
the panic, into which my words had thrown him.
“‘Oh, my poor child! Oh, my dear child! And here you have been
controlling and concealing your own great sorrow to listen to me and to
sympathize with my lighter ones. Oh, my poor Elfrida! My poor, poor
girl!’ he breathed at last, with a voice full of distress and compassion
that I felt sure he must have heard of Saviola’s Parisian marriage, and
was grieving over it more than I was for myself. I felt that I must try
to comfort him.
“‘Do not take it to heart, dear father,’ I said. ‘Look at me! I do not
appear to be dying of despair, do I? Do not grieve for me, since I do
not grieve for myself. Let us, from time to time, live for each other.
You, dear, dear father! have had a great sorrow which you bear like a
Christian. I have had a humiliating disappointment and a wholesome
lesson; though like most of the teachings of experience, the lesson
comes too late to do the pupil any good. But from this time I will
forget my trouble and live for you.’
“He was still staring at me with more wonder and amazement than before.
“‘I had not the remotest suspicion that it was Luigi Saviola whom you
had married,’ he murmured, as if speaking to himself. Then after another
long, speculating look at me, he inquired:
“‘Elfrida, my darling, how came you to marry this young man—was your act
a mere whim, a childish freak, or could you really have loved him?’
“I saw by his whole manner that there was some afterthought in my
father’s mind that I did not comprehend; but I answered him:
“‘I thought I loved him; but in my ignorance and inexperience I must
have been misled by fancy and imagination to mistake admiration and
enthusiasm for love; but the hallucination was strong enough to make me
forget every duty I should have remembered and held sacred.’
“‘Tell me all about your courtship and marriage, Elfrida!’ he said.
“And then I told him, as faithfully as I have set it down here for you,
Abel, every particular—of Saviola’s introduction to me; of the growth of
our acquaintance and its development into that false hero-worship which
I mistook for love; of our runaway marriage, in which Angus Anglesea
aided as my guardian, saying that since he had no power to prevent the
marriage he would see that it was solemnized legally and properly.
“‘God bless the boy!’ broke in my father, with so much fervor that I had
not heart to tell him afterward what a villain Anglesea had proved
himself—in the sequel—to be.
“Then I told him of our travels; of my letters of contrition to him; of
my disappointments in not hearing from him; of the gradual opening of my
eyes to the true character of my husband; of my grief, wonder and
humiliation at discovering that my imaginary hero, martyr, patriot,
humanitarian, was no better than a professional gambler and adventurer!
Still, though his life degraded himself and me, though I could no longer
adore and worship him as I had done when I believed in him—still I bore
with him because I really thought that he loved me, that with all his
faults he was faithful to me. In this belief I lived and hoped until the
end came. Then, indeed, the last scales fell from my eyes. I know that
if he had ever loved me, he had ceased to do so now.
“‘Poor fellow!’ murmured my father, as if he judged Saviola much more
leniently than I could do. And again the impression came to me that
there was an afterthought lurking in his mind, incomprehensible to mine.
“‘Why do you pity him, father dear? I should think you would feel
nothing but resentment and animosity to him.’
“‘My dear, when one has seen so much suffering as I have, one must learn
mercy. He ran away with my daughter and married her, to be sure; but he
was young and in love, and you were living only with careless
governesses. I could have forgiven him. He took to the gaming table
until hazard became the passion of his life. He was lucky in cards, but
I never heard that he was dishonest. And—without knowing his near
relations to you and myself—I have heard a good deal of him lately.’
“‘Father, you seem to be really defending him.’
“‘Am I, my dear? Then it is because he can no longer defend himself.’
“‘No; for his conduct is utterly indefensible.’
“‘What conduct, my child?’
“‘My dear father, with all that you have heard of him lately, you cannot
have heard of the shocking event at Paris.’
“‘Yes, my dear, I have heard it all—though I did not know at the time
that he was your husband.’
“‘And now that you do know it, what do you think of all this, sir?’
“‘I think, my dear, that it is strange in you, and incomprehensible to
me, that you should feel no regret for the young man’s tragic fate, nor
wear one sign of mourning for him who was your husband. I think, my
dear, that in this you should pay some respect to death, if not to the
dead,’ he gravely replied.
“It was now my turn to stare at him.
“‘Father!’ I exclaimed; ‘I do not comprehend. What tragic fate? Who is
dead? Not Luigi! I heard of him only yesterday!’
“‘Heard of him? Heard of whom? Not Saviola? Is it possible that you do
not know?’
“‘Know what, sir? I know nothing, it seems. What do you mean, dear
father?’
“‘Is it possible that you do not know Prince Luigi Saviola fell in a
duel with the Duc de Montmeri, nearly two months ago!’
“‘Great Heaven! No, I knew nothing of all that. Oh, poor Luigi! Poor
Luigi!’ I covered my face with my hands and fell back in my chair.
“‘And you knew nothing of all this?’
“‘Nothing, nothing!’ I moaned.
“‘And yet the papers were full of the subject.’
“‘I never saw any papers after Luigi left me. I was expecting my child
every day, and I lived very secluded, so that I heard no rumors—until
very lately a report met me that he was on the eve of marriage with a
French heiress,’ I said, remembering the tale told me by Anglesea.
“‘Strange that such a report as that should get afloat about a young man
whose fate was well known all over Europe, and filled all hearers with
compassion and sympathy.’
“‘Tell me of the duel, father! Tell me all you know,’ I said.
“‘It arose at a gentlemen’s dinner, given by one of the Bonapartes. The
talk turned on women, and drifted into the comparative merits of women
of different European nationalities. The Duc de Montmeri, who had taken
too much wine, made some injurious and sneering remarks on Italian
women. The prince warmly took up the defense of his fair compatriots.
High words ensued. The quarrel ended in the challenge of Saviola by
Montmeri. They met the next morning in a secluded spot in the Rouveret.
Montmeri was a professional duelist and a dead shot. Saviola fell at the
first fire. It was a murder—no less. When his second went to raise his
head the dying man only breathed forth three words—“My poor wife”—and
died. Little did I think when I read these words that the poor wife in
question was my own daughter.’
“‘Oh, Luigi! Poor Luigi! And to think that I should have listened to
such cruel slanders of you and cherished such bitter thoughts of you!’ I
exclaimed, in sudden remorse at the remembrance of the ready credence I
had given to the story of his second marriage told me by Anglesea.
“‘And you really knew nothing of this fatal duel until I told you about
it?’ again demanded my father.
“‘Nothing, I assure you. But remember how secluded I have lived here,
seeing no one but my infant boy, my nurse and my maid—except, indeed, my
physician, who came daily for weeks, but who would not have been likely
to speak to me of the duel, even if he had read of it, which he might
not have done, you know.’
“‘Well, my love, you should now put on widow’s mourning for your
deceased husband,’ said my father, looking gravely into my face.”