A PAINFUL SURPRISE.
Several of Sir Lawrence’s--as we must call him now--new neighbors had
attended the funeral, and his pleasant but subdued manner impressed
them so favorably that they were ready to give him and his wife a
cordial greeting when they came to live among them.
“We always felt for your uncle,” said old Lord Milworth, as he shook
the young baronet heartily by the hand; “but, you see, he lived such a
secluded life that we did not know him well enough to miss him. But you
and your beautiful wife will be great acquisitions, Sir Lawrence, and I
hope we shall shortly have the pleasure of welcoming you to Loamshire.”
Sir Lawrence thanked him in suitable terms, and said he counted upon
bringing Lady Gwendolyn to the Abbey in the course of a week or so,
and this information pleased the old lord mightily, for he was a great
admirer of the fair sex generally, and of Lady Gwendolyn in particular.
But in spite of all the kind feeling that was shown him, Sir Lawrence
was thankful when he found himself in the carriage that was to take him
to the station. The Abbey seemed to him full of the gloom of death, and
cast a chill over his warm, eager pulses.
However, once on his way to Paris, he began to recover himself. When he
reached town, he had only just time to drive from one station to the
other, but by promising the cabman double fare, he managed to catch
his train, and was soon speeding toward Dover, picking up his spirits
gradually as he went along.
He reached Paris at about six o’clock in the morning, and drove
straight to his hotel. Much as he longed to see his wife, and clasp her
once more in his arms, he was too unselfish to disturb her at such an
early hour, and, ordering another room, he lay down and tried to sleep
for awhile.
But he found this to be out of the question, and soon rose and dressed
himself.
Precisely as the clock struck nine--not a minute before--he knocked
softly at the door of his wife’s bedroom, and, receiving no answer, he
went in on tiptoe, enjoying the anticipation of waking her with a kiss.
But a sudden prophetic chill crept over him when he perceived that
the bed was empty. There where he had last seen his wife’s fresh,
flowerlike face was a large pink _edredon_, such as Othello might have
used to smother Desdemona.
He tossed it over, thinking that, maybe, she had hidden herself beneath
it in order to give him a little surprise in her turn; but as there was
no sign of her or her belongings anywhere, he went back into the salon,
and rang the bell, as if he would ring it down.
The garçon came up running. Sir Lawrence asked if miladi had changed
her room, at which Francois stared in amazement.
“Changed her room?” he repeated. “Why, she is gone!”
“Where?”
“Miladi did not say, monsieur; and it was not our affair to inquire. We
thought she had left to join monsieur.”
“Are there any letters for me?” demanded Sir Lawrence, putting his hand
to his heart, as if he had received a sudden blow.
“Yes, monsieur, there is one for you, and also several for miladi. We
gave them in charge of the manager directly they arrived.”
“Fetch them quickly,” answered Sir Lawrence, who thought he should
find something to explain his wife’s sudden caprice; and he scarcely
breathed until the man came back, bringing with him all the letters
Sir Lawrence had written to his wife, and one in Lady Gwendolyn’s
handwriting addressed to him.
He waited until the garçon had retired, and then he tore open this last
with an eager, tremulous hand.
A letter full of reproaches and accusations would not have moved him
so much as this cruel silence, this cold abandonment. It is true that
the telegram was a full explanation, and quite accounted for his wife’s
sudden departure, but he had not expected such dignified self-control
in an impulsive girl like Lady Gwendolyn. He forgot that she had
received one of those terrible blows that alter a woman’s entire
nature, and, therefore, it was useless to seek any precedent for her
present course of conduct.
At first he could hardly realize the full significance of all that had
happened. It seemed so impossible that his wife had really left him,
and yet, the cruel contrast between his hopes and the chill reality
destroyed the last remnant of his self-control. He buried his face in
his hands, and the tears rained from his burning eyes. His whole life
was wrapped up in this woman who had deserted him; and the child that
was coming to her was his.
Recovering himself a little, he sat down to ponder as to the best
course to be pursued. He knew it was no use advertising, because Lady
Gwendolyn had often told him that this would be an unnecessary exposure
so far as she was concerned, as she never read a newspaper. How, then,
could he get at her? Suddenly, as if by inspiration, it occurred to him
that his wife must have taken her solicitor into her confidence, as he
received her rents, and would have to keep her supplied with money. He
did not know Mr. Large’s address, but he felt sure that his own man of
business would, as he had had to communicate with the other at the time
of Lady Gwendolyn’s marriage.
Therefore, Sir Lawrence made up his mind to return at once to London;
and, as he lost no time, he found himself back again that night--too
late, however, to call upon Mr. Browne.
He passed a miserable night, and was only too thankful when it was time
to start for Mr. Browne’s office with a reasonable hope of finding
him there. Mr. Browne looked very much surprised when he heard Sir
Lawrence’s errand.
“Surely her ladyship has not forgotten,” he said. “She must often have
occasion to communicate with him.”
“Yes, but it is I who want to communicate with Mr. Large,” responded
his client; “and Lady Gwendolyn is not with me.”
“Oh, I see!” replied Mr. Browne, quite satisfied. “I do not remember
Mr. Large’s address at this moment, but I will look through my
books, and tell you directly. I hope her ladyship is quite well?” he
concluded, as he began to turn over the leaves of a small manuscript
book, stopping when he came to the letter “L,” which headed one of the
pages.
“Pretty well, thank you,” replied Sir Lawrence hesitatingly; but Mr.
Browne did not hear.
“Here it is!” he said at last; “Throgmorton Street, Danesbury Square,
number ten.”
Sir Lawrence rose at once, thanked him politely, and hurried off. He
had to wait half an hour at the office before Mr. Large arrived, and
was beginning to get very impatient, when that gentleman suddenly
appeared before him.
“I must apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said, with a courteous
bow; “but I had to see a client at his own house this morning, and have
not even had time to breakfast yet. Can I be of any use to you, Sir
Lawrence?”
“You certainly can, Mr. Large. I suppose we shall be private here?”
“Quite so. My clerks would not disturb me themselves, or allow any one
else to disturb me when I am busy.”
“And they cannot overhear what we say?”
“Most assuredly not.”
In spite of this assurance, Sir Lawrence looked cautiously about him
before he began, in a low voice:
“You know, of course, Mr. Large, that my wife has left me?”
Mr. Large bowed. He had no need to deny this.
Sir Lawrence went on:
“I must tell you that she has made a great mistake, Mr. Large. If
I deserved such treatment at her hands I should only be too glad,
naturally, to let matters remain as they are, and regain my liberty;
but she has judged too hastily and superficially. I could explain
things to her perfect satisfaction if she would grant me an interview,
and I came here on purpose to ask you to tell her this, as she has left
me no way of communicating this to her myself.”
“I would willingly do what you ask, Sir Lawrence,” Mr. Large replied,
“but Lady Gwendolyn has not at present given me any address. She
took with her a check for three hundred and twenty pounds, being her
half-year’s rent and dividends, and said, as she had not yet decided
where to go, she would write to me later.”
“What did she give as her reason for such an extraordinary step?”
“She gave no reason.”
“You astonish me!” exclaimed Sir Lawrence vehemently. “I fancied she
would have accused me, in order to excuse herself.”
“Then you will pardon me for saying that you do not understand Lady
Gwendolyn. If impulsive, she is very generous, and rather sought to
take the blame of your separation upon herself. I remember her very
words: ‘You know I am a spoiled child, Mr. Large, and very difficult
to please. I expected so much that I was sure to be disappointed, and,
therefore, have no right to complain. Pray let us keep the affair as
quiet as we can.’ I reminded her that her friends would demand some
explanation of her conduct; but she assured me that she was perfectly
independent in every way, and had no intention of consulting anybody.
Of course, I knew nothing of her ladyship’s motives, and had no right
to interfere. I am only surprised that she allowed me to say as much as
I did.”
“Did she look ill, Mr. Large?”
“Extremely ill--so ill that I took the liberty of advising her to keep
within reach of good medical advice.”
“And what did she say?” inquired Sir Lawrence eagerly.
“She said she had had a long journey, and a trying time mentally; but
that she should, no doubt, be all right when she got into the country.”
“Got into the country?” repeated Sir Lawrence, welcoming the hint
eagerly. “She did not mention Turoy, I suppose?”
“Yes, she did. She told me that her old nurse, Hannah, would not be
able to take care of it any longer as her husband had obtained a good
situation at Westhampstead, and, therefore, she should like the house
let if I could get her a respectable tenant.”
“Should you consider me a respectable tenant?” inquired Sir Lawrence,
with a faint, trembling smile.
Mr. Large seemed amused.
“Would you care to have the Grange?”
“Certainly I should. I could not bear a stranger there where my wife
passed so many happy months when she was a child; moreover, I think
that Lady Gwendolyn ought not to be living on six or seven hundred a
year when I have thirty thousand, and I suppose she will not allow me
to help her in any other way.”
“But, you see, Sir Lawrence, her ladyship knows that the Grange is only
worth about eighty or ninety pounds a year; and if I were to offer her
a fancy rent, she would immediately suspect something wrong.”
“It can’t be wrong for a man to support his wife. I wish, with all my
heart, that Lady Gwendolyn had not a farthing, and then it would have
been difficult for her to leave me, unless she had the law on her side.”
“I infer, from what she says, Sir Lawrence, that she considers herself
to have the law on her side, but does not care to appeal to it.”
“I wish she would, with all my heart. The only thing I ask is an
opportunity of explaining matters, and clearing myself. I should never
have condemned her without proof.”
“When I begged her ladyship to reflect before she took a step that she
might regret so much later, and mentioned how deceitful appearances
often were, she told me that she had the fullest proof, and must needs
believe her own eyes and ears.”
“Her own eyes!” repeated Sir Lawrence. “But she came straight from
Paris here, I presume?”
“I do not know if am doing right, Sir Lawrence, but I cannot help
telling you that when her ladyship came to me she had just returned
from Borton, and not from Paris.”
Sir Lawrence became frightfully pale. He understood it all now.
“Then I am undone,” he said. “What my wife saw there she would
certainly misconstrue, and she has left me no chance of explaining
matters.”
For a minute his courage gave way utterly, and he buried his face in
his hands, and trembled from head to foot with the effort he made to
command himself.