HUSBAND AND WIFE
It was late in the morning when Abel Force was awakened by a gentle
tapping at his chamber door.
“Who is there?” he inquired, as he hastily arose, thrust his feet into
slippers, drew on his dressing gown, and opened the door.
“It is I, papa,” said Wynnette, in a cheerful voice, and with a bright
smile, that at once dispelled the squire’s fears for his wife, which had
been aroused by the summons.
“How is your mother?” he inquired.
“She is better, papa. She is awake now. Dr. Bolton says that we may see
her, but only one at a time. I thought you would like to be the first,
so I came to call you. I did not know that you were still asleep. It is
late, you see.”
“Yes, it is late; but I was up nearly all night. Thank Heaven that your
mother is better. Come in, Wynnette.”
“Hadn’t I better leave you to dress, papa?”
“Presently. But I wish to send a line by you to your mother before I go
to her. I will dress while you take it.”
Wynnette entered the room, closed the door, and sat down on the side of
the little bed to wait for the “line.”
Mr. Force went to the small stand, and wrote:
“Dearest dear, I have read your paper, and I love you as ever—more
than ever, if that were possible; for love is deepened and sanctified
by sympathy with all that you have suffered. Send me word by our
Wynnette if you feel well enough to see me. I am longing to be with
you.”
He folded the paper and gave it to his daughter, saying:
“Go in to see your mother, and when you have kissed and embraced her
give her this note, and wait until she reads it. Then bring me any
message that she may send.”
Wynnette took the missive, wondering a little why her father should send
it, and left the room to deliver it.
But Mr. Force had acted with prudent foresight. He feared that, in his
wife’s nervous and enfeebled condition, the sudden sight of him in her
room while she was yet in doubt about his feelings toward her, might
have a disastrous effect upon her health. Therefore he had sent the
short, loving message as a preparation for his visit.
He dressed himself in a great hurry, and waited for the return of
Wynnette.
She came while he was drawing on his coat.
“Mamma wants you to come at once and see her alone. She has sent out the
nurse.”
“How did you find her, Wynnette?”
“Oh, she is better. All right, I should think, except that she is very
weak and as white as chalk. She cried when she read your note, papa. Why
did she cry, papa? What was in your note?”
“She cried from nervousness, my dear. There was nothing in my note to
distress her. I expressed the sympathy I felt, and asked her if she was
able to see me,” replied the squire, truthfully, as far as the words
went, yet evasively.
“Oh!” said Wynnette, and she was perfectly satisfied.
“I am going to see her now,” said the squire, as he passed out of his
own little room and went to his wife’s chamber.
He opened the door and passed in. The window shutters were open, but the
white shades were down and the lace curtains drawn, so that the chamber
was filled with a soft, dim, white light, that showed the low French bed
and the fair form upon it.
As Mr. Force approached his wife, she put up her hands and covered her
face.
“Elfrida,” he said, in low and tender tones.
“Oh, how can I look you in the face?” she murmured.
“How can I kiss you, dear, unless you take away your hands?” he said,
gently removing them and pressing his lips to hers.
“Oh, Abel! if I could leave my bed—I should be at your feet! It is on my
knees that I should receive your forgiveness,” she moaned.
“My dearest,” he whispered, kissing her again—“my dearest, I do not
offer you forgiveness, for you have done me no wrong.”
“Oh, yes! oh, yes! I had a shameful secret, and I kept it from you, and
married you! My love——No, no! my selfish feeling was not worthy of the
name of love, yet what else can I call it? Whatever it was, it blinded
me to honor and duty and drew me on to marry you, with that shameful
secret in my heart,” she moaned.
“Dear wife, you are very morbid. Your secret was not a shameful one, and
it was never kept from me,” he answered, caressingly.
“What, Abel! What are you telling me?” she inquired, starting up in bed.
“Lie down again. Calm yourself and keep very quiet, Elfrida. I have much
to tell you, and I will tell you all. Confession for confession, my
dear.”
“The idea that you should have anything to confess! It is impossible,
Abel!” she said, as she sank back on her pillow and lay quietly as he
had told her to do.
“Yes, Elfrida! Confession for confession! for I knew your secret when we
married, but I never let you suspect that I knew it.”
“How?” she breathed, in wonder.
“Your father told me, when I asked him for your hand. The late earl had
insight enough into character to see that he could trust me; that I
could never blame you for the deception he believed had been practiced
upon you; that I should consider you as truly an honorable widow as if
the marriage you believed to have been a fraud, had been as legal a bond
as it is now proved to have been!”
“What—what are you saying, Abel? I—I—cannot comprehend.”
“I am telling you that Saviola married you in good faith, and that your
marriage was as lawful as heaven and earth could make it! But lie still,
keep quiet, and let me tell my story in my own way. You will then be
able to comprehend it better.”
“I will try,” she said, settling herself once more.
“You will remember that when I asked your father for your hand he said
that he must have a talk with you before he could give an answer.”
“Yes, he told me so, when he came to talk with me of your proposal.”
“You remember that you refused me, all on account of that secret, which
you would not reveal. I, not knowing why you refused me, but certainly
knowing that you returned my love, declined to take no for an answer,
and so I continued to be a member of your father’s traveling party.”
“Yes.”
“After some weeks I again renewed my proposal for your hand to the earl,
your father, begging his intercession with you on my behalf. It was then
that he took me into his confidence and told me of the false marriage
into which—he believed—you had been led while yet a young, motherless
girl in the schoolroom, and of the child that had been born of that
marriage, and finally of the death of the man who had perpetrated the
supposed wrong.”
“It must have been a great shock to you.”
“A shock that was without the least blame to you, my darling wife; so
that when I recovered from it I told your father that you were in my
eyes a blameless widow, and that I should be the proudest and happiest
man alive if I could be blessed with your love and honored with your
hand.”
“Oh, Abel! Generous soul!”
“He then told me where the difficulty lay—that you imagined yourself
so—so—well, so injured by the wrong which had been done you—or which you
believed had been done you—that you could never bring yourself either to
reveal it to me, or to marry me without having revealed it.”
“No, I could not—I could have died, or lived in misery sooner.”
“So your father told me. But I was a young man, in love, my dearest, and
therefore ready with expedients. I said to the earl:
“‘I see a way out of all this.’
“He replied:
“‘Tell me, for I see none.’
“I answered:
“‘You have told me these antecedents, and your most fastidious sense of
honor is satisfied. I know the secret, and still pray for the honor of
your daughter’s hand, as I believe I have already the blessing of her
love. Pray go, therefore, to your daughter, ask her if she considers you
a man of honor and integrity worthy of her trust. Of course, she will
earnestly, and with wonder and indignation at such a question, assure
you that she does. You will then please tell her of my renewed proposals
and assure her, in turn, that on your honor as a peer, and your faith as
a Christian, she may accept my hand without revealing her secret, and
without detriment to her conscience.’
“The earl remained plunged in thought for a few minutes, and then
replied:
“‘I believe you have found a way out of the labyrinth. I will do as you
request upon one condition.’
“I asked him what it was. He answered:
“‘That you never tell my daughter that you knew her secret. She is so
morbid on that point, I believe she would die if she thought you knew
it.’
“I promised. And, Elfrida, darling, you know the rest. We married, each
having a secret from the other—yours the secret of your first marriage,
mine the secret of the forbidden knowledge of that marriage. Did I not
say that I should offer confession for confession?”