AT INNSBRUCK.
When Sidney Martin turned away from his petulant young wife, and strode
with long hasty strides up the mountain track which lay nearest to him,
he did so simply from the impulse of passion. He was little more than
a boy himself; just as she was little more than a wayward girl. It was
scarcely a year since he left Oxford; and he was now spending a few
months in traveling abroad as a holiday, before settling down to the
serious business of life. His uncle was the head of the great firm of
Martin, Swansea & Co., shipping agents, whose business lay like a vast
net over the whole commercial world, bringing in golden gains from the
farthest and least known of foreign markets. Sir John Martin, for he
had already been knighted, and looked forward to a baronetcy, was a
born Londoner, at home only in the streets of London, and unable to
find pleasure or recreation elsewhere. But he was desirous that his
nephew and heir should be a man of the world, finding himself
unembarrassed and at home in any sphere of society; especially those
above the original position of his family. To this end he had sent
Sidney to Eton and Oxford; and had now given him a year's holiday to
see those foreign sights presumed to be necessary to the full
completion of his education.
The misfortune was, as Sidney had long since owned to himself, that he
had not been content to take this holiday alone. He was in love, with
a boy's passion, with Sophy Goldsmith; and he knew his uncle would
rather follow him to the grave than see him married to a girl so far
beneath him in position. It was impossible to leave Sophy behind; he
had no difficulty in persuading her to consent to a secret marriage.
She was a girl of the same age as himself, whose sole literary
education had consisted in the reading of third-rate novels, where none
of the heroines would have hesitated for a moment from stealing away,
as she did, from her very commonplace home; to which she expected some
day to return in great state and glory.
But the stolen happiness had been very brief. Sidney, boy as he was,
found out too soon how ignorant and empty-headed his pretty, uneducated
wife was. She was in no sense a companion for him. Traveling about
from place to place, with all the somewhat pedantic book-learning of
his university career fresh upon him, and with enthusiastic
associations for many of the spots they visited, especially in Italy
and Greece, he was appalled to find that what interested him beyond
words was inexpressibly wearisome to her. What was the Palace of the
Cæsars to one who knew only as much of Roman history as she had learned
in Mangnall's Questions at the poor day-school she had gone to? Or
Horace's farm; who was Horace? Or Pliny's villa; she knew nothing of
Pliny. Why did he want to go to Tusculum? And why did he care about
the Etruscan tombs? She did not want to learn. She had not married to
go to school again, she declared one day, with a burst of tears; and if
he had not loved her as she was he ought to have left her. There were
those who would have loved her if she had not known a great A from a
chest of drawers. She would not bother herself with any such things.
Sidney discovered, too, that she cared equally little for painting or
music. A brass band playing dance-music in the streets and a strongly
tinted oleograph was as far as her native taste in music and art would
carry her; and she resented the most delicately hinted instruction on
these points also. The wild and magnificent scenery which delighted
him immeasurably, was dreary and unintelligible to her. She loved
streets and shops, and driving amid throngs of other carriages, and
going to theaters, though even there she yawned and moped because she
could not understand a word the actors spoke. It was in vain he urged
her to try and acquire a knowledge of the language. She was going to
live in England, she argued; and it was not worth while to spend her
time in learning Italian or French.
Before six months had passed, the inward conviction had eaten into
Sidney's mind that his marriage was a fatal mistake. He brooded
silently over this thought until it affected strongly his temper, kind
and sanguine when untried, but now falling into a somber despair. He
had been guilty of a folly which his uncle would never overlook. If
Sophy had been as intellectual as she was beautiful, he could have
educated her, and so made a companion of her; and possibly his uncle
might in time be won over to forgiveness. A brilliant, beautiful
woman, able to hold her own in society, one of whom Sir John could be
proud, might have conquered him; but never an ignorant, empty-headed,
low-born dunce, like Sophy. A dunce and a fool, the young husband
called her in the bitter intolerance of youth; for youth demands
perfection in every person save self.
This inward disgust and weariness of his silly little wife had been
smouldering and increasing for months. Once before he had given way to
it so far as to leave her for a few days, and to wander about in what
seemed a blissful and restful solitude. But he had written to her, and
kept her informed of his movements, and had returned after a short
absence. Now he felt he could not take up the heavy burden again; not
voluntarily.
He made his way through the darkening shadows of great pine forests and
narrow valleys, to Toblach, a village about twenty miles distant, at
the entrance of the Ampezzo valley, through which Sophy must pass, if
she continued her journey without retracing alone the route by which
they had come. And there he remained for three or four days, expecting
to see her arrival hour after hour. Then he grew nettled. She was
waiting for him to go back penitent, like the prodigal son. Not he!
She was quite able to manage a journey alone; and he had left her
plenty of money--indeed, nearly all he possessed. It was not as if she
was some high-born young lady, who had never ventured out of doors
unattended. Sophy had the hardy independence of a girl who had earned
her own living, and had expected to manage for herself all her life.
This had become one of her offenses in his eyes. She was as sharp as a
needle in avoiding imposition, and taking care of money; and her
generalship at the many hotels they had stayed in had at first amused,
and then enraged him. She could take very good care of herself.
Still, when he went on his way, he left word with the landlord of the
hotel that he was gone to the Kaiserkrone at Botzen; and at Botzen he
stayed another three days, and left the same instructions as to her
following him to the Goldne Sonne, at Innsbruck. Each journey made the
distance between them greater, and gave to him a feeling of stronger
relief at being free from her presence. There was no return of his
boyish passion for her; not a spark revived in the ashes of the old
flame.
He was sauntering through the Hofkirche at Innsbruck, gazing somewhat
wearily at the grotesque bronze figures surrounding the tomb of
Maximilian, and thinking how Sophy would have screamed with laughter,
and talked in the shrill key that had so often made him look round
ashamed, in other famous churches; for he was at an age when shame is
an overpowering vexation.
"Thank Heaven, she is not here," he said half aloud, when suddenly a
hand was laid on his shoulder, and a familiar voice exclaimed:
"What, Sidney! you are here--and alone!"
"Alone!" he repeated; "who did you expect to find with me, George?" he
asked irritably.
It was the last word that struck him, and over-balanced the
astonishment he felt at hearing his cousin's voice. George Martin
shrugged his shoulders.
"Come out of this church," he said, in a voice toned down to quietness,
"and I'll tell you straight. I never could manage anything, you know;
there's no diplomacy in me, and so I told Uncle John. Come; I can't
talk about it here."
They went out into the open air, and strolled down to the river in
silence. George Martin was in no hurry to tell his message, and Sidney
shrank from receiving it. He had often dreaded that some rumor might
reach his uncle; for Sophy had not been prudent enough in effacing
herself on their travels. So the two young men stood on the bridge,
gazing down at the rapid rushing of the waters below them, and for some
time neither of them spoke a word.
"Old fellow," said George at last, laying his hand affectionately on
Sidney's shoulder, "I'm so glad to see you alone. There isn't anybody
at the hotel, is there?"
"What do you mean?" asked Sidney with a parched throat.
"Anyone you would be ashamed of, you know," he continued. "Uncle John
heard somehow there was a girl traveling about with you--I don't like
to say it, Sid--and he sent me off at a moment's notice after you.
There, now the murder's out! Uncle John said, 'Don't be bluff and
outspoken; but find out quietly.' But I never could be diplomatic.
You are alone, Sidney, aren't you?"
"Quite alone," answered Sidney, looking frankly and steadily into his
cousin's face. There was always a winning straightforwardness and
clearness in his gray eyes, as if the soul of honor dwelt behind them,
which went right to the hearts of those who met their gaze; and George
Martin's clouded face brightened at once.
"I'm so glad, so thankful, old fellow!" he exclaimed. "I don't mind
now telling you, uncle was in an awful rage, swore he would disinherit
you, and cut you off without even a shilling, you know; and sent me to
find you out, because I was to be the heir in your place, if it was
true. Perhaps he thought that would make me keen to find it true. But
oh, how thankful I am to find it false? We are more like brothers than
cousins, Sidney; and I'd rather lose a dozen fortunes that lose you."
Sidney grasped his hand with a firm, strong clasp, but said nothing.
For the moment he was dumb; his pulses beat too strongly for him to
speak in a natural tone. Disinherited! He who had not a penny of his
own. George Martin attributed his silence and agitation to the
indignation he must be feeling.
"Come home at once with me," he said, "and make it all right with Uncle
John. It was a vile scandal, and just the thing to exasperate him.
It's only giving up a few weeks of your holiday; and it's worth while,
I tell you, Sid. He said he had it on good authority; but if you go
back with me, he'll be satisfied."
"I don't know," answered Sidney, with some hesitation; "it's like
owning I am afraid of being disinherited. Leave me to think it over;
it is not a thing to be decided in a moment."
Yet he knew at the bottom of his heart that he had already decided. It
seemed to him as if he had been saved from a fatal exposure by the
drift of circumstances. But for Sophy's violent temper she would
either have been with him when his cousin met him at Innsbruck, or
George would have pursued his journey to the Ampezzo valley, and found
them there. Then it would have been impossible to conceal the
truth--the hateful truth--any longer. That would have been utter ruin
for them both. He could do nothing to maintain a wife or, indeed,
himself, if his uncle disinherited him. So far he had never earned a
six-pence in his life. If he acknowledged Sophy just now, it would
only be to bring her to destitution; or to make himself dependent upon
her exertions.
He went back to his hotel, and wrote a long letter to his young wife,
carefully worded, lest it should fall into wrong hands. He told her to
make her way as directly as possible to England to her father's house;
and to let him know immediately of her return there. She could reach
it by tolerably easy railway journeys in about a week; and he carefully
traced out her route, entering the moment of departure for each train
she must take, and telling her at what hotels she must stay. It was
now a week since he had left her, and he had no doubt she was on her
way after him. It seemed to him as though he was taking an almost
tender care for her safety and comfort, more than she deserved; and
thought she ought to be very grateful to him for it. He urged the
utmost prudence upon her in regard to their secret.
He left this letter with the landlord of the Goldne Sonne, doing so
with considerable caution, very well concealed. It was addressed to S.
Martin only, and might have been either for a man or a woman. If no
person claimed it, it was to be forwarded to him intact at the end of
three months, when he would send a handsome acknowledgment for it. But
it would probably be asked for in the course of a few days; for Sidney
reminded himself, with self-gratulation, that at both of the hotels he
had quitted lately he had left instructions for Sophy; with a careful
description of her appearance, that no wrong person should receive them.
These steps set his conscience at rest; and he returned to England with
no heavier burden on his spirits than the dread of discovery, which
must be borne as long as he was absolutely dependent upon his uncle's
favor.