CHAPTER XXXIPRETENDED CONSOLATION
“In the evening Anglesea called on me again.
“His manner was full of the most respectful sympathy. He was my brother’s dearest friend. He had acted in my father’s and my brother’s absence as my own best friend; and, since he could not prevent my romantic escapade, he had attended me in the character of a guardian, to see that no fatal mistake was made through Saviola’s ignorance of national laws and customs. Therefore, I had every reason to trust in him and confide in him as in an elder brother.
“I was alone, in the little drawing room, when he entered. I received him as warmly, though more gravely, than when he had called at noon.
“When we were seated I asked him—as I would haveasked my brother—whether my husband had really, finally abandoned me.
He looked searchingly into my face, as if to see how I would be likely to take his answer.
Finding in my expression no very distressing anxiety, but simply a wish to know the truth, he replied:
“‘Saviola has disappointed us all. If I were not speaking to you I should say that he is scarcely worthy of thought, still less of regret.’
“‘But—are you sure? Has he really and finally abandoned me?’ I repeated.
“‘He has.’
“‘You are sure of this?’
“‘I am.’
His words and tones were grave, sweet and compassionate.
“‘Where is he now?’ I next inquired.
“‘In Paris.’
“‘I must write to him again, then,’ I said, with the idea that, although I no longer loved or respected the man, he was my husband, and to write to him was my duty. ‘I will—will write to him to-night.’
“‘You may do so,’ he said, gravely and tenderly. ‘Nay, I would even counsel you to do so for the relief of your own mind, and that you may never have the slightest cause for self-reproach. But I warn you that it will have no effect whatever upon Saviola. He will not answer your letter.’
“‘He has not answered any letter of mine since he left for Paris. But, surely, if I write and ask him, plainly, whether he ever means to return to me, and beg him to reply, so that I may know what to do, he will answer.’
“‘No, he will not. But, to satisfy yourself, write to him at once. Then you will know, Elfrida!’”
“In the days when we three—Anglesea, my brother and myself were as intimate and familiar as the children of one house—he had followed suit with Francis and called me by my Christian name, and sometimes by its abbreviation. I had liked it then, and I liked it now, though this was the first time, since my marriage, that he had given it to me.
“‘Yes, I will write to-night. I will write at once,’ I said.
“‘Then I will bid you good-evening. There is a mail that closes at eleven o’clock. If I leave you now you may be able to secure it,’ he said, rising.
“‘Thank you, Angus. Come again to-morrow,’ I said, using the name I had been accustomed to give him when he was the daily and beloved companion of my brother and myself.
“He took my hand, bowed over it and left the room.
“Then I sat down to my desk to write the letter to Saviola in Paris.
“I did not reproach him, nor lament his absence, nor write in any way unkindly or sorrowfully to him. I simply reminded him how long he had been gone; how many letters I had written that remained unanswered, and then inquired whether he meant to return to me, and if so, when? I ended by telling him that my little son and myself were in good health, and begging him to answer me to the point that I might know what to do. So I left him at perfect liberty to act for himself.
“When I had sealed and directed this letter I rang and dispatched it to the hotel bag that left the house at a quarter to eleven.
“Then I went to bed.
“My child usually slept with his nurse in a little room off my bedchamber. But now I called her to bring the baby to me; and I took him into bed and drew him to my bosom, finding comfort in the thought that my childwould never desert me, and that no one on earth had power to take him from me. What a soothing balm that little form was pressed to my heart.
“I lay awake nearly all that night, not with trouble or anxiety, but with thoughts and plans for the future of my child and myself.
“I had made up my mind. If I should get no answer from Saviola I would make ready and leave Switzerland for Ireland. I would go with my child to Weirdwaste, which was my own, and live there as I had lived before the fatal journey to Brighton. I would live among my warm-hearted Irish tenants, who, poor as my forefathers had been for generations, had never been oppressed, but always helped to the extent of our power. They had loved my mother, had loved me for her sake, and they would now welcome and love my child, who would be the heir of Weirdwaste, if of nothing more.
“I would live at Weirdwaste until the return of my father, when I would confess all my faults and follies to him, and appeal to his affection for forgiveness and protection.
“In two years and a few months I should be of age, and should enter into the full possession of my poor, old estate.
“I should live there always, and bring up my boy to be a Christian gentleman and a good and wise landlord.
“The excellent vicar should be his tutor and look after his education, and the amiable doctor should be his physician and look after his health.
“Francis, my dear brother, would visit me often, I felt sure. My father would come sometimes. These were all I really cared to see.
“We should be happy—my little son and I—in spite of all that had passed. He would never, from his father’s example, grow up to become a gambler, a winebibber, or an adventurer. He should be trained to become an honor to his name and a blessing to his tenantry.
“Thinking these pleasant thoughts I fell asleep at last and realized all my anticipations—in my dreams!
“The next day, and every day for a week, Angus Anglesea came to see me.
“He no longer spoke of Saviola; but he talked to me of my dear brother, his own dearest friend—a theme of which I never tired. He told me that his ardent studies at Eton had overtasked his strength. His physicians recommended a long vacation, and a total change of air and scene. Therefore, he accompanied his father and stepmother to the Canaries—Dr. Alexander and the Rev. Dr. Clement, of Weirdwaste, attending the party, as traveling physician and private tutor.
“‘So,’ said I, ‘that is the reason why none of my letters addressed to my old friends at Weirdwaste were ever answered. But since the vicar and the doctor were conscripted for foreign service, who, may I ask, was left to take charge of the souls and bodies of the poor people at Weirdwaste?’
“‘My child, clergymen and physicians are as plenty as wild berries. A curate without a parish and a doctor without a practice were easily found to fill the places of the hard-worked and badly paid old vicar and doctor, who needed rest and change about as much as any of the traveling party.’
“‘So all my friends are in the Canaries!’
“‘Except myself, Elfrida. I am here, and I will remain near you, to guard you as an elder brother, until your fate is decided.’
“‘A girl’s fate is supposed to be decided when she is married, but that does not take into account the possibility of her desertion by her husband,’ I replied, but without any bitterness of feeling.
“‘No,’ he admitted, very gravely—‘no, because suchpossibilities are as exceptional as they are tragical. But take courage, Elfrida. As I was your brother’s truest friend and brother, so I will be yours, to remain near you, to guard you and assist you as long as you may need me.’
“‘Thank you, Angus! Oh, thank you! I am glad that all my family and friends are in the Canaries, since it is so good for them to be there. And I am glad—oh! so glad that you are here, Angus! I do not feel quite alone and helpless now that you are here. It is very good of you to say that you will remain near me until something is settled. But will not your doing so interfere with some of your previous engagements?’
“‘Not with any,’ he replied. ‘I am an idle man. And even if it were not so—even if I were over head and ears in business—I should let all go in order to be of service to my dear friend’s sister in her need. And believe me, Elfrida, I find the greatest happiness in serving you.’
“His generous devotion moved me to tears. I thanked him in the most earnest words at my command.
“The week passed, and no letter came from Saviola. I was not disappointed, for now I scarcely expected to get one. I reconciled myself to my fate as a forsaken wife all the more cheerfully for my child’s sake, who would be thus saved from the baleful effects of his father’s evil example.
“The week passed, and though no letter came from Saviola, no word on the subject was spoken between Anglesea and myself.”