VERY LONELY.
Eleanor had considerable difficulty in parrying Mrs. Lennard’s
questions as to how she had come to know Gilbert Monckton and his ward;
and she was obliged to confess that she had been musical governess to
Laura at Hazlewood.
“But I must beg you not to tell Mr. Monckton that I am with you, if you
should happen to write to him,” Eleanor said. “I have a very particular
reason for wishing him to remain in perfect ignorance of my present
home.”
“To be sure, my dear,” answered Mrs. Lennard, “of course I won’t tell
him if you don’t wish me to do so. And as to writing to him, I should
no more think of doing so than of flying in the air, except just a
civil note of a few lines, to thank him for sending me news of Laura.
He only writes to me once in six months or so, to tell me how my lost
darling is, and though I’ve implored him again and again, he won’t let
me see her. ‘She is still little more than a child,’ he wrote in his
last letter, ‘and I dread the effect of your influence upon her. It is
out of no revengeful feeling that I keep your daughter apart from you.
When her character is formed and her principles fixed, you shall know
her.’ As if I was a wretch!” cried Mrs. Lennard, in conclusion, “and
should contaminate my own daughter.”
Eleanor smiled as she shook her head.
“Dear Mrs. Lennard,” she said, “your daughter is perhaps better off in
the care of such a man as Gilbert Monckton. She is as kind-hearted and
good-tempered as yourself, but she is rather weak, and——”
“And I’m weak, too. Yes, I quite understand you, Miss Villars. It is my
misfortune to be weak-minded. I can’t say ‘no’ to people. The arguments
of the person who talks to me last always seem so much stronger
than those of the person who talked to me first. I take impressions
quickly, and don’t take them deeply. I was touched to the heart by
Gilbert Monckton’s kindness to my father, and I meant to marry him as I
promised, and to be his true and obedient wife; and then when that poor
silly Fred came all the way to Lausanne, and went on so about being
ill-used and deserted, and wanted to commit suicide, I thought it was
my duty to run away with Fred. I haven’t any opinions of my own, you
see, and I’m always ready to be influenced by the opinions of other
people.”
Eleanor thought long and deeply over the story she had heard from Mrs.
Lennard. This was the root of all Gilbert Monckton’s suspicions. He
had been deceived, most cruelly, most unexpectedly, by a beautiful,
childish creature, in whose innocence he had implicitly believed. He
had been fooled and hoodwinked by a fair-haired angel whose candid
azure eyes had seemed to beam upon him with all the brightness of
truth. He had been deceived most egregiously, but he had not been
deliberately betrayed: for up to the time of her treacherous desertion
of her affianced lover, Margaret Ravenshaw had meant to be true to him.
Unhappily Gilbert Monckton did not know this. It is difficult for the
man who finds himself as cruelly jilted as he had been, not to believe
that the false one has intended all along to turn traitor at the last.
There had been no explanation between Margaret and the lawyer; and he
was entirely ignorant of the manner of her flight. He only knew that
she had left him without a word to prepare him for the death-blow,
without a line of regretful farewell to make his sorrow lighter to
him. The frivolous shallow woman had been unable to fathom the depth
of the strong man’s love. Margaret Ravenshaw knew there was a very
little of the divine in her own nature, and she had never expected to
inspire the mighty affection of a grand and noble soul. She was able
to understand the love of Frederick Lennard: which was demonstrated by
noisy protestations, and disclosed itself in long schoolboy letters in
which the young man’s doubtful orthography was blistered by his tears.
But she could not understand the intensity of feelings that did not
make themselves visible in any stereotyped fashion.
Unluckily for the harmony of creation, wise men do not always fall in
love wisely. The wisest and the best are apt to be bound captive by
some external charm, which they think must be the outward evidence
of an inward grace; and Gilbert Monckton had loved this frivolous,
capricious girl as truly as if she had been the noblest and greatest of
womankind. So the blow that had fallen upon him was a very heavy one;
and its most fatal effect was to transform a confiding nature into a
suspicious one.
He argued as many men argue under the same circumstances. He had been
deceived by one woman, _ergo_, all women were capable of deception.
I don’t suppose the “Stranger” placed very much confidence in the
Countess, or had by any means too high an opinion of Charlotte; and the
best of men are apt to feel very much after the manner of Mrs. Haller’s
husband.
It seemed very strange to Eleanor to be living with Gilbert Monckton’s
first love. It was almost as if some one had risen out of the grave;
for she had looked upon that old story which she had heard hinted at by
the Hazlewood gossips, as something so entirely belonging to the past,
that the heroine of the romance must of necessity be dead.
And here she was, alive and merry, knowing no greater uneasiness than
a vague dread of increasing plumpness, induced by French dinners. Here
she was the very reverse of the image that Eleanor had conjured up in
her mind in association with Gilbert’s false love; a good-tempered,
commonplace, pretty, middle-aged woman. Mrs. Monckton felt a little
pang of jealousy at the thought that her husband had once loved this
woman so dearly. Her husband! Had she still the right to call him by
that name? Had he not severed the link between them of his own free
will? Had he not outraged her honour, insulted her truth by his base
and unfounded suspicions? Yes! he had done all this, and yet Eleanor
loved him! She knew the strength of her love now that she was away from
him, and might perhaps never see his face looking at her in kindness
again. She knew it now that her scheme of vengeance against Launcelot
Darrell had failed, and left a great blank in her mind. She thought of
her husband seriously now for the first time, and she knew that she
loved him.
“Richard was right,” she thought again and again; “the purpose of my
life was cruel and unwomanly. I had no right to marry Gilbert Monckton
while my mind was full of angry thoughts. Richard was right. My poor
father’s rest would be no more peaceful if I had made Launcelot Darrell
pay the penalty of his wickedness.”
She did not abandon her idea of vengeance all at once; but little by
little, by very slow degrees, her mind became reconciled to the idea
that she had failed in her scheme of retribution, and that there was
nothing left her but to try and justify herself in the sight of the
husband she loved.
She loved him; and the angry feelings which had prompted her to run
away from Tolldale Priory, willingly abandoning all claim to his name
and his protection, were beginning to give way now. Mrs. Lennard’s
story had thrown new light upon the past, and Eleanor made all kinds of
excuses for her husband’s conduct. It was his habit to bear all sorrows
quietly. Who could tell what anguish he might have felt in the thought
of his young wife’s falsehood?
“He would not pursue Margaret Ravenshaw,” Eleanor thought, “and he
makes no attempt to find me. And yet he may love me as truly as he
loved her. Surely if God refused to hear my prayers for revenge, he
will grant me the power to justify myself.”
She could only blindly hope for some unknown chance that might bring
about her justification; and that chance would perhaps never come.
She was very unhappy when she thought of this; and it was only the
perpetual confusion in which Major Lennard and his wife contrived to
keep everybody belonging to them, that saved her from suffering very
cruelly.
All this time she was quite ignorant of the appearance of an
advertisement which had been repeated at the top of the second column
of the _Times_ supplement every day for nearly a month, and about which
idle people hazarded all many of conjectures—
ELEANOR, come back. I was rash and cruel. I will trust you.
G. M.
Major Lennard was in the habit of seeing the _Times_ every day at
Galignani’s; but, as he was not a very acute observer or original
thinker, he took no notice of the repetition of this advertisement
beyond an occasional, “By Jove! Haw! that poor dayv’l’s still
advertising for El’ner!” nor did he ever make any allusion to the
circumstance in his domestic circle.
So Eleanor hugged her sorrows secretly in the gayest city of the world,
while Gilbert Monckton was hurrying hither and thither, and breaking
his heart about his lost wife.
I think that pitying angels must sometimes weep over the useless
torments, the unnecessary anguish, which foolish mortals inflict upon
themselves.