CHAPTER XXXAWAKENING
There is not in this world of sinA soul so deeply sunk therein,Thronged though it be with crimes and cares,Revenges, malices, despairs,However dire the phantoms there,However pestilent its air—But in its thoroughfares, night and day,There ever is some golden ray,Like a sweet child from home astray—Some light of Heaven, some fragment thenceOf primal love and innocence,Which keeps the angels on its trackTo lure and win and lead it back.—Wm. H. Holcombe.
There is not in this world of sinA soul so deeply sunk therein,Thronged though it be with crimes and cares,Revenges, malices, despairs,However dire the phantoms there,However pestilent its air—But in its thoroughfares, night and day,There ever is some golden ray,Like a sweet child from home astray—Some light of Heaven, some fragment thenceOf primal love and innocence,Which keeps the angels on its trackTo lure and win and lead it back.—Wm. H. Holcombe.
There is not in this world of sinA soul so deeply sunk therein,Thronged though it be with crimes and cares,Revenges, malices, despairs,However dire the phantoms there,However pestilent its air—But in its thoroughfares, night and day,There ever is some golden ray,Like a sweet child from home astray—Some light of Heaven, some fragment thenceOf primal love and innocence,Which keeps the angels on its trackTo lure and win and lead it back.—Wm. H. Holcombe.
There is not in this world of sin
A soul so deeply sunk therein,
Thronged though it be with crimes and cares,
Revenges, malices, despairs,
However dire the phantoms there,
However pestilent its air—
But in its thoroughfares, night and day,
There ever is some golden ray,
Like a sweet child from home astray—
Some light of Heaven, some fragment thence
Of primal love and innocence,
Which keeps the angels on its track
To lure and win and lead it back.
—Wm. H. Holcombe.
“We lived at the best hotels in every town and city where we stopped, but we never stayed long at any place. Saviola was too successful a gambler for that.
“He was always kind to me, and would have loaded me with jewels and costly dress, but that I would have none of them, for my soul was troubled by the way in which he made his money—a way that he no longer tried to conceal from me.
“I had periodical fits of homesickness, during which I wrote to my father and to my teachers, but withoutin any instance receiving a reply. Then I would write again and again, with no better result. And finally I would give up hoping to hear from them, and try to resign myself to my fate; until my next attack of homesickness would set my pen in motion again.
“Later on, not homesickness alone, but remorse and despair and terror seized me. I was beginning to lose all hope of ever being forgiven by my father; and, ah me! I was also beginning to lose esteem for my husband, for whose sake I had left all my friends and relations.
“Luigi was still fond of me in that way that a child is fond of a favorite toy of which he is not yet tired.
“I had discovered my own self-deception.
“Other young girls have come to grief and death through their deception by others. I had only myself to blame! Myself had only deceived me. But it was bitter! oh, how bitter! to find out that the hero, martyr, patriot and humanitarian I had imagined, was only a very handsome young gambler, who was not too honest or truthful!
“My undeceived soul sickened at him and at myself!
“My very last attack of homesickness found us at Geneva, where we had an elegant suit of apartments in the Hotel Beau Rivage.
“Again in one day I wrote five letters to absent friends—to my father, to Miss Murray, to Madame de la Champe, to Dr. Alexander, and to the Rev. Mr. Clement. From some of these I should surely get an answer. But week after week passed and no answer came to me.
“In the second month after our arrival at Geneva, Saviola was suddenly called to Paris—on imperative business, he said; but I had learned to distrust. I could not accompany him—my state of health utterly precluded the idea of my traveling. He took a very affectionateleave of me, and promised to be back again in a few days.
“‘A few days’ is a vague term! Yet I was not disturbed by that. He left me, and I never saw his face again.
“Just one week after he went away my child was born—a boy. I was very healthy, and had a rapid convalescence, notwithstanding the suspense and anxiety I was suffering on account of my father.
“I wrote to Luigi—to the address he had given me—and informed him of the event. But I received no reply to my letter. Yet, I got better every day, and I took great comfort and delight in my child. Also, I daily expected the return of Saviola to answer my letter in person—for I remembered that he hated to write, and was therefore one of the very worst correspondents in the world.
“But I was disappointed. Day followed day, week succeeded week, and I neither saw nor heard from Saviola, nor received any answers to any letter written to my father and friends.
“I knew that my father must long have left the archipelago, but I supposed that he must have—as usual—left orders for any letters that might come for him after his departure to be forwarded to his new address; so, though I had expected delay, I had not anticipated final disappointment.
“It was now the first of October, and many tourists were leaving the lake. Saviola had left me amply provided with funds, so that I had no fear of embarrassment, especially as I was very economical, only applying the ill-gotten money to my barest necessities. Besides, I had my boy, so that I was able to wait quite cheerfully the return of my husband.
“Ah me! It was not Saviola that I was troubled about. It was my father. At length it occurred to me to writeto my father’s London bankers to inquire for him. And I wondered that I had never thought of doing so before.
“On this occasion I received a prompt answer, which was at once encouraging and depressing, as you will see, contradictory as the statement seems. Messrs. Rhodes told me that the earl had taken the countess to the Canaries for her ladyship’s health, and that they had wintered there, but that in May they had sailed for an extensive yachting cruise, from which they were expected to return to England some time in February.
“So my father could never have received any of my letters, and was therefore not the unbending, unforgiving, pitiless father I had thought him. He had probably written me many letters whose final destination was the dead-letter office. I might still hope for his ready forgiveness. So far the news was encouraging.
“But, then, on the other hand, he would not return until February. This was the depressing feature in the letter. Yet the encouraging circumstances outweighed the depressing item, so that, on the whole, I was more hopeful and more cheerful.
“As the days of October grew shorter and cooler I began to be impatient to leave the place, and for this reason eager for the return of Saviola. At length I grew really despondent. It was about this time—the middle of October—that I saw in the little Geneva paper an item that startled and delighted me. It was under the head of ‘Arrivals.’ It was but a line:
“‘The Hon. Angus Anglesea, England—Hotel des Bergues.’
“Without an instant’s delay I sat down and wrote a note, asking him to call on me at the Beau Rivage.
“The thought of meeting one home face—and that the face of my brother’s dear friend, Saviola’s goodfriend, my own true friend, who had traveled with us to Scotland to see that I should be regularly married before he left me under the protection of Saviola—filled my soul with delightful anticipations.
“He came promptly in response to my summons. It was only noon when the waiter opened the door of the little drawing room where I sat, and announced:
“‘The Hon. Mr. Anglesea.’
“I sprang up and held out both my hands to welcome him.
“He raised one to his lips, bowed over it, and said:
“‘I hope I find you well, madame.’
“‘Oh! I am so glad—so glad to see you!’ I exclaimed, at random.
“He took a seat.
“I sank into my easy chair, my heart beating with excitement, with tumult, only to see the face of a friend.
“‘I am very happy to come to you,’ he said. ‘I hope Saviola is well,’ he added—dubiously, as I thought.
“‘He is always well,’ I replied. ‘He is in Paris.’
“‘You hear from him daily, of course?’
“‘No. He is a poor correspondent. I shall not hear from him until I see him, I fear.’
“He looked very grave, but made no comment.
“I hastened to ask him if he knew where my father then was.
“His reply confirmed the bankers news—the truth of which, by the way, I had never doubted.
“He said that my father was wintering in the Canaries for the sake of the countess’ health, and that Viscount Glennon, my brother, was with them.
“This was the reason, then, why I had never heard from my brother.
“Mr. Anglesea appeared preoccupied while he spoke. Then, after a short silence, he said:
“‘Ah, madame, pray do not consider me impertinent. Believe me, I speak only in your own interests——’
“‘As you acted when you went to Scotland with us,’ I added.
“‘Precisely, Madame la Princesse.’
“‘Then speak freely, Mr. Anglesea. I shall not take offense.’
“‘Then I wish to inquire when you last heard from Luigi Saviola.’
“I hated to answer that question—to confess the many days that had elapsed since I had seen or heard from my husband. Yet I answered:
“‘I have not heard from him since he left here for Paris, six weeks ago.’
“‘Ah!’ he said, very gravely.
“‘But I expect to see him soon,’ I added.
“‘Indeed!’ he exclaimed, in surprise.
“‘Yes, indeed. Of course. Why not?’ I demanded, in astonishment.
“He was silent.
“‘Why not?’ I again demanded, uneasily.
“He looked grave.
“‘What do you mean, Mr. Anglesea?’ I exclaimed, anxiously.
“‘Ah, madame!’ he sighed. ‘You know so little of the world! So little of the world!’
“‘Mr. Anglesea, you distress me. Has anything happened to Saviola?’
“‘Ah, madame, you were but a child when you went off to marry the Italian. I—knowing full well that I could not prevent that mad act which was sure to take place—went with you, for your sake, for your brother, my friend’s sake, to prevent any fatal error from being committed. I thought I had prevented calamity to you. I know better now. Ah, yes!’
“‘Mr. Anglesea,’ I said, ‘you frighten me. What has happened? I implore you to tell me.’
“‘Not now! I cannot! But do not be alarmed! Take courage! I am your friend! I will see you through this trouble.’
“‘No! you must tell me—now! Has—has—has——’ I could scarcely bear to put the question; but I nerved myself to do it. ‘Has Luigi left me—deserted me?’ And I sank back and covered my burning face with my hands.
“‘How shall I answer your question, madame? But put the question rather to your own intelligence. He left here six weeks ago. He has not returned or written to you since. Any one less youthful, innocent and inexperienced than yourself would draw inferences from these circumstances. Will you excuse me now? I will see you this evening. May I?’
“‘Yes,’ I answered, mechanically.
“He bowed and left the room.
“I was alone again. I wished to be alone to collect my thoughts. It had never occurred to me that Saviola would desert me—never!
“He had ceased to be my king, my hero, my idol. He had revealed himself to be a gambler, a sharper, an adventurer. I had long ceased to love, trust, or respect him. Still, I knew that he was fond of me, in his way, and so I never imagined that he could forsake me. And, now that the possibility was presented to me, it filled me with more wonder than sorrow or mortification.
“I was not nearly so much troubled by the possible desertion of Saviola as I had been by the long silence and fancied implacability of my father. I was sorry for Saviola only because, though I had ceased to love, or trust, or respect the man, I had begun to compassionate him. He seemed so much weaker than I was.
“With this feeling of pity and regret was mingledone of intense relief. I had so little to lose in losing the man whose life was a constant source of shame and fear to me! But, whatever he may have been, his rank was unquestionable. I had been lawfully married to him, and I was the Princess Saviola. And my son was Prince Rolando Saviola. No one could deprive us of these old and honorable, though now empty, titles.
“I soon reconciled myself to my desertion, even if I did not rejoice in my deliverance. I made up my mind to take my child and go directly to Weirdwaste, my own inheritance from my mother, and there await my father’s return to England; then confess the whole truth to him and throw myself upon his love and his protection.
“But, ah, Heaven! I did not yet know the worst!”