CHAPTER XXXVA SHOCK
“‘Prince Luigi Saviola.’
“He stared at me in surprise, in distress.
“‘Prince Luigi Saviola!’ he echoed, without withdrawing his fixed gaze from my face.
“‘Yes, dear father,’ I answered, wondering at the emotion, or rather at the panic, into which my words had thrown him.
“‘Oh, my poor child! Oh, my dear child! And here you have been controlling and concealing your own great sorrow to listen to me and to sympathize with my lighterones. Oh, my poor Elfrida! My poor, poor girl!’ he breathed at last, with a voice full of distress and compassion that I felt sure he must have heard of Saviola’s Parisian marriage, and was grieving over it more than I was for myself. I felt that I must try to comfort him.
“‘Do not take it to heart, dear father,’ I said. ‘Look at me! I do not appear to be dying of despair, do I? Do not grieve for me, since I do not grieve for myself. Let us, from time to time, live for each other. You, dear, dear father! have had a great sorrow which you bear like a Christian. I have had a humiliating disappointment and a wholesome lesson; though like most of the teachings of experience, the lesson comes too late to do the pupil any good. But from this time I will forget my trouble and live for you.’
“He was still staring at me with more wonder and amazement than before.
“‘I had not the remotest suspicion that it was Luigi Saviola whom you had married,’ he murmured, as if speaking to himself. Then after another long, speculating look at me, he inquired:
“‘Elfrida, my darling, how came you to marry this young man—was your act a mere whim, a childish freak, or could you really have loved him?’
“I saw by his whole manner that there was some afterthought in my father’s mind that I did not comprehend; but I answered him:
“‘I thought I loved him; but in my ignorance and inexperience I must have been misled by fancy and imagination to mistake admiration and enthusiasm for love; but the hallucination was strong enough to make me forget every duty I should have remembered and held sacred.’
“‘Tell me all about your courtship and marriage, Elfrida!’ he said.
“And then I told him, as faithfully as I have set itdown here for you, Abel, every particular—of Saviola’s introduction to me; of the growth of our acquaintance and its development into that false hero-worship which I mistook for love; of our runaway marriage, in which Angus Anglesea aided as my guardian, saying that since he had no power to prevent the marriage he would see that it was solemnized legally and properly.
“‘God bless the boy!’ broke in my father, with so much fervor that I had not heart to tell him afterward what a villain Anglesea had proved himself—in the sequel—to be.
“Then I told him of our travels; of my letters of contrition to him; of my disappointments in not hearing from him; of the gradual opening of my eyes to the true character of my husband; of my grief, wonder and humiliation at discovering that my imaginary hero, martyr, patriot, humanitarian, was no better than a professional gambler and adventurer! Still, though his life degraded himself and me, though I could no longer adore and worship him as I had done when I believed in him—still I bore with him because I really thought that he loved me, that with all his faults he was faithful to me. In this belief I lived and hoped until the end came. Then, indeed, the last scales fell from my eyes. I know that if he had ever loved me, he had ceased to do so now.
“‘Poor fellow!’ murmured my father, as if he judged Saviola much more leniently than I could do. And again the impression came to me that there was an afterthought lurking in his mind, incomprehensible to mine.
“‘Why do you pity him, father dear? I should think you would feel nothing but resentment and animosity to him.’
“‘My dear, when one has seen so much suffering as I have, one must learn mercy. He ran away with my daughter and married her, to be sure; but he was youngand in love, and you were living only with careless governesses. I could have forgiven him. He took to the gaming table until hazard became the passion of his life. He was lucky in cards, but I never heard that he was dishonest. And—without knowing his near relations to you and myself—I have heard a good deal of him lately.’
“‘Father, you seem to be really defending him.’
“‘Am I, my dear? Then it is because he can no longer defend himself.’
“‘No; for his conduct is utterly indefensible.’
“‘What conduct, my child?’
“‘My dear father, with all that you have heard of him lately, you cannot have heard of the shocking event at Paris.’
“‘Yes, my dear, I have heard it all—though I did not know at the time that he was your husband.’
“‘And now that you do know it, what do you think of all this, sir?’
“‘I think, my dear, that it is strange in you, and incomprehensible to me, that you should feel no regret for the young man’s tragic fate, nor wear one sign of mourning for him who was your husband. I think, my dear, that in this you should pay some respect to death, if not to the dead,’ he gravely replied.
“It was now my turn to stare at him.
“‘Father!’ I exclaimed; ‘I do not comprehend. What tragic fate? Who is dead? Not Luigi! I heard of him only yesterday!’
“‘Heard of him? Heard of whom? Not Saviola? Is it possible that you do not know?’
“‘Know what, sir? I know nothing, it seems. What do you mean, dear father?’
“‘Is it possible that you do not know Prince Luigi Saviola fell in a duel with the Duc de Montmeri, nearly two months ago!’
“‘Great Heaven! No, I knew nothing of all that. Oh, poor Luigi! Poor Luigi!’ I covered my face with my hands and fell back in my chair.
“‘And you knew nothing of all this?’
“‘Nothing, nothing!’ I moaned.
“‘And yet the papers were full of the subject.’
“‘I never saw any papers after Luigi left me. I was expecting my child every day, and I lived very secluded, so that I heard no rumors—until very lately a report met me that he was on the eve of marriage with a French heiress,’ I said, remembering the tale told me by Anglesea.
“‘Strange that such a report as that should get afloat about a young man whose fate was well known all over Europe, and filled all hearers with compassion and sympathy.’
“‘Tell me of the duel, father! Tell me all you know,’ I said.
“‘It arose at a gentlemen’s dinner, given by one of the Bonapartes. The talk turned on women, and drifted into the comparative merits of women of different European nationalities. The Duc de Montmeri, who had taken too much wine, made some injurious and sneering remarks on Italian women. The prince warmly took up the defense of his fair compatriots. High words ensued. The quarrel ended in the challenge of Saviola by Montmeri. They met the next morning in a secluded spot in the Rouveret. Montmeri was a professional duelist and a dead shot. Saviola fell at the first fire. It was a murder—no less. When his second went to raise his head the dying man only breathed forth three words—“My poor wife”—and died. Little did I think when I read these words that the poor wife in question was my own daughter.’
“‘Oh, Luigi! Poor Luigi! And to think that I should have listened to such cruel slanders of you andcherished such bitter thoughts of you!’ I exclaimed, in sudden remorse at the remembrance of the ready credence I had given to the story of his second marriage told me by Anglesea.
“‘And you really knew nothing of this fatal duel until I told you about it?’ again demanded my father.
“‘Nothing, I assure you. But remember how secluded I have lived here, seeing no one but my infant boy, my nurse and my maid—except, indeed, my physician, who came daily for weeks, but who would not have been likely to speak to me of the duel, even if he had read of it, which he might not have done, you know.’
“‘Well, my love, you should now put on widow’s mourning for your deceased husband,’ said my father, looking gravely into my face.”