[Anyhow Home] [Last Touches Story Index]

 

 

 

A RIDICULOUS TRAGEDY

 

 

EMMELINE KING had no love-affairs at all till she was thirty. She was a governess—had been one since she was nineteen—and, as a rule, governess do not have love-affairs, except in novels. Unfortunately Miss King was not in a novel, she was in a well-off family in Eccleston Square, where she taught the two daughters of the house the rudiments of many more things than she knew anything worth mentioning about herself. She was a pretty woman, with soft brown eyes, and a singularly happy expression. The last was remarkable, for she had very few friends, and no relations at all: except for the eighty-eight pounds she had gradually saved and lodged in the post-office, there was nothing, in case of illness, between herself and the workhouse.

            One day there came on a visit to Sir George and Lady Ives (her employers) a cousin, in the shape of a good-looking young man. He had no money. His father, a country parson, had lately died, and his mother, who had been the daughter of the bankrupt peer, had gone abroad to help an impecunious brother through a domestic crisis, while her son stayed in Eccleston Square and “looked out for something.” Sir George was a good deal taken up with Irish affairs, and Lady Ives with meetings and other advanced amusements, not much to the taste of an indolent young man of a flirtatious disposition and twenty-five years. So he amused himself by making love to the governess. What did it matter if her years were five more than his? She was pretty, and a woman, and at first he really liked her. He made love exceedingly well. He had had a large and varied experience of it in the garrison town, a few miles from his father’s living, where he had held his own even against the soldiers. He lied most beautifully; swore that he had never loved any woman as he loved her, though he could not marry her because of his relations and his lack of money. But he would be everlastingly true; and if some day by chance he had a few hundreds of his own, they would be together all their lives, and happy ever after. She believed his every word; would have laid down her life for him, and enjoyed the sacrifice; forgot her five too many years, and looked up to him as if she had been seventeen; thought him a hero and all the rest of it, and that she would be a life-long tenant in her paradise—which was a fool’s. Of course the crash came, for he was only a young cur, not fit to hold a candle to her, and with no strength to keep to even one of his thousand vows. He went off after a little while to make them to another woman; said them all over again with equal fervour, no doubt; married £700 a year, and thought himself in luck. Miss King nearly broke her heart, and had to do it in secret, looking over French exercises the while, and wondering if she were growing consumptive from seldom eating and never sleeping.

            Then suddenly another visitor came to stay at Eccleston Square, a certain Count Carlo dal Mezzio. He did not err on the side of youthfulness; he was a good and iron-grey fifty—Italian fifty—which is equal to English sixty. He had a worn face with deep lines on it, and a sadness in his voice that poor Emmeline found soothing. He had been a friend of Mazzini’s in bygone days, and mixed up in all sorts of fine, and generally unsuccessful, movements. He had a cultivated mind, an appreciation of the beautiful, and many other sentimental attributes. He had met Sir George a few years back on board a Mediterranean steamer, and struck up a close acquaintance of a week, which ended in an invitation to stay at Eccleston Square, if he came to England. It was embarrassing when he turned up with the remark that he had lost his wife the year before, and, being very sad and lonely, wanted to see his good friend again.

            Sir George was looking after Home Rule at the House, and his wife was looking after Female Suffrage at her Club. So the Count, like the youth, was left to his own devices and the kind attentions of Miss King—who, by the way, was considered to be one of the family, and the Member for the Home Department. He promptly and with much earnestness fell in love with her; he did not say so, but it was evident. He never took his eyes off her  when she was in the room: he listened to every word she said, as if it had been the profoundest wisdom or the finest poetry. It cheered her up a good deal. She liked to feel that the grey and picturesque being with memories of political intrigues and sunny Italy, and so on, was in love with her, even as she had been in love with her “dear heart,” as she called the young cur who had lied so readily and forgotten so soon; but she had hoped that he would never speak, that he would love her in silence, that he would go back to his own land thinking of her, that he would think to the end of his days and die with her name on his lips, just as she meant to die with the young cur’s name on hers. This, of course, was absurd. So one afternoon, when her pupils had gone out with their maid, and Emmeline was cutting open the new magazines in the back drawing-room, the Count, after sitting by her in silence for some minutes, suddenly put his hands on hers, and said in a dignified, but impassioned manner, “I lofe you.”

            “Oh!” said Emmeline, and dropped the paper-knife.

            “I lofe you,” he repeated, “and I want you for my wife,” which was a short but direct statement so much more to the point than the protestations with which the young cur had filled in the last few months, that, without rhyme or reason, she burst softly into tears. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “it is too much—you lofe me. I knew it, I felt it in my heart, that is full,” and he put his large hands over it, “that is full of lofe for you.”

            “Oh, but—” she began.

            “You shall be mine,” he said impressively; “we will be married next week, and we will go to Italy: my lofe, we will go to Italy.”

            “Oh,” she said weakly, “but I am all alone in the world, and I have never—never been away from home.”

            “I am alone, too,” he answered tragically; and she thought, as his hair was grey and the lines on his face were deep, and, moreover, as he had known Mazzini, that he must be telling the truth. “I am alone,” he repeated, with a long sigh, “and I lofe you. Let us be married, and we will neither of us be alone any more. We will go to Genoa, and be very happy.”

            She thought it would comfort her poor seared heart (she was quite sure that it was seared) to go to Italy and to be a countess, though it was only an Italian one; moreover it would show the young cur that other men, even distinguished patriots with grey hair and noble bearing, were her lovers. Poor young cur, she loved him again for one sweet, sad moment, though he was probably busy lying to some other woman (for the sake of his morals, let us hope it was to his wife this time) with precisely the same words that he had lied to her. But Miss King did not mean to marry one man and think of another. So she softly and for ever laid her young lover to rest in her memory, and turned to her old lover with a look that evidently satisfied him, for he stooped and kissed her forehead, and said fervently:

            “Emmeline, you are an angel.”

            They were married a fortnight later. Lady Ives gave the bride her trousseau, so the eighty-eight pounds, though it was withdrawn from the post-office, remained intact. It was agreed that the honeymoon should consist of a journey home to Genoa, with halts by the way.

            “You shall see Paris, my lofe,” the Count said, “and then we will go down to Fontainebleau, to Avignon, to ten, twenty beautiful places, and at Marseilles we will take the train along the border of the Mediterranean sea to Genoa. Oh, we will be very happy.”

            The marriage took place early in the morning. By eleven o’clock they were on their way to Dover.

            “We are going to be very happy,” he repeated again in the railways carriage, “my wife;” he lingered over the word as though he admired his own pronunciation of it. “To-night we will dine on the Boulevard, and then you shall walk along the Rue de Rivoli; the English lofe it,” and he laughed merrily. He was quite gay. He was almost frivolous. Madame dal Mezzio felt that she was a lucky woman.

            They were to spend four days in Paris, so they went everywhere and saw everything that was not expensive. For the Count explained that he was not rich; “but we will by happy,” he said, “and we will be simple.” This was on the second day, and his voice was abstracted. In the evening he was a little silent. He sighed once or twice and shook his head. On the third day he looked distinctly sad. She wondered if he were thinking of his country and political complications. He ate no lunch; in the afternoon he refused to go out. Then she became very anxious.

            “What is the matter?” she asked.

            “My lofe,” he sighed, “I am very miserable.”

            “After three days?” she said, with tender reproach.

            “I am miserable for you,” he said; “no—it is for myself.”

            “But why?” she asked breathlessly.

            “I fear you will not lofe me any more, Emmeline. I have deceived you. When we married I said nothing about my daughter—my little daughter.”

            “Your daughter!” she exclaimed; “but where is she?”

            “She is here in Paris; she is at the Convent of St. Marguerite, being, instructed by the good Sisters.”

            “Don’t be unhappy because of her—or of me. We will go to see her in the morning,” Madame dal Mezzio said, when she had recovered from her surprise; “she shall be mine too, now, and we will take her home with us.”

            “Oh, Emmeline, you are an angel,” the Count said, and kissed her hand. “We will go and see her; but we will leave her at the Convent for six months.” So the next day Madame dal Mezzio made the acquaintance of a demure little girl of eight years, who sat in the Convent parlour, and was almost afraid to speak, though she ate the chocolates they took her, and stared at her visitors with large black eyes.

            The Count was quite happy again. He gave his bridge the best three-franc dinner in Paris that night. In the morning they went on their way to Fontainebleau, with half a chicken, a bottle of wine, some butter and rolls, in a basket. “We will make a little fête,” he said; “we will sit under the trees, my lofe, and we will be gay.” The chicken was good; the wine was excellent. The leaves whispered tenderly, the little birds twittered occasionally, the sunshine flecked the ground with gold: altogether the picnic was quite a success.

            “And now,” said the Count as they got up from their feast, “we must leave this place, but we will remember it very often, for we have been happy. Let us seek the train for Dijon.” As he said the last word his eyes turned to her wistfully, his voice quivered a little.

            “You are not sad any more?” she said.

            “Oh, my lofe,” he sighed, “if we could only stay here for ever. I am afraid to go to Dijon.”

            “But why?” she asked as they went slowly along the pathway, leaving their gaiety behind with the empty bottle and the little bones of the chicken.

            “I cannot tell you,” he answered. “I am afraid. I know what a good heart you have, but I am afraid.”

            “Oh, but that is unkind, dear Carlo. You must tell me,” she said entreatingly, and looked up at his deep-lined face.

            “My lofe,” he said, with another long-drawn sigh, “at Dijon, in the Convent of the Sacred Heart, there is my other little girl. She is one year younger than Isabel whom you saw yesterday.” A little bewilderment came over the face of Madame dal Mezzio.

            “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said gently. “Why didn’t you trust me, dear Carlo; of course I will love your motherless little girls. I am glad there are two and not one.”

            “Oh, Emmelone,” said the Count, “you are an angel,” and gradually his spirits revived. So at Dijon they went to see another little girl in another Convent, and spent another quarter of an hour just as they had done in Paris. And again they left the little one speechless among the chocolates, to the care of the good Sisters, and went on their way. They stayed at Avignon next, and had a merry time. They looked at the Palace of the Popes: they ate snail patties with their dinner, for the Count assured his wife that they were excellent, and though she felt certain that they would kill her—why, that was mere detail. And the next day being Sunday they spent the afternoon in listening to the band, and watching the peasants dance by the river. Madame dal Mezzio felt that continental life was charming. For a moment her thoughts went back to the young cur in England, with his seven-hundred-a-year wife. He was probably spending a listless Sunday in London. She remembered the long, dull streets, the rows and rows and rows of houses that were like the bars of a huge prison. She was very glad to be here under the blue sky. She thought of the home she was going to in Genoa, of the two little girls who were to come to her in six months’ time, and of how happy she would make them. Then her husband gave another long sigh.

            “Carlo,” she asked with a start, “is anything the matter?”

            “No, my lofe;” but he sighed again.

            “No more little daughters in Convents?” she laughed, and he shook his head.

            At Marseilles they stayed at a very small hotel, where the dinner only cost a franc and a half, and was dear at that.

            “We will be simple,” said the Count, and his voice was anxious. After dinner they walked down the Cannebière to the quay, and looked at the blue water and the hundred sails of ships. The lines on the Count’s face grew deeper, his words fewer, his step slower. When they went back to the hotel Madame dal Mezzio felt that there was anxiety ahead. They ascended the dirty staircase to their room: the window was open, the stars were looking in.

            “Oh, my lofe,” said the Count presently, as they stood by the window, “I am very miserable. To-morrow, when we take the train to Italy, we shall go on and on by the sea till we come to Alassio. We will stay there two days.”

            “But why are you miserable?”

            “I have deceived you,” and he shook his head more sadly than ever. “My lofe, I was afraid you would not marry me, so I did not tell you—”

            “Tell me what?” she asked. He took her hand and looked up at the sky.

            “At Alassio there is a Jesuit College—”

            “Yes,” she said, uneasily.

            “My two little sons are there,” he added, almost tearfully. “Oh, my lofe, they are both there.”

            “Your sons!” she exclaimed.

            “Yes,” he echoed sadly, “my sons—they are both there.” She looked up at him, bewildered again.

            “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said. “Of course I will love them,” but the words were not said with the alacrity that had been in them when she had heard of his first little daughter. “I think you should have trusted me, it was not quite kind.” Then, as a pained look over came over his face, she put her hand on his shoulder and said gently, “We will try and make them very happy as they grow up, dear Carlo. Perhaps they will be like you.”

            “Oh, Emmeline,” he said, “you are an angel.” But somehow Madame dal Mezzio, struggle as she would to shake it off, felt that life was a more anxious thing than it had seemed a week ago. Responsibilities were gathering round her; the holiday time was over.

            She was her little step-sons at Alassio. They were grave little youths, with close cropped hair and dark eyes, and as silent as their sisters.

            “I am going to be your mother,” she told them, and comforted her heart with the reflection of maternal feeling.

            When the visit was over she and her husband went on by the afternoon train, but they did not talk much. She felt as if sadness was only a little way off. She looked out at the Mediterranean, and once her eyes filled with tears. But she reproached herself for this. Did not many a woman marry a widower with children? Carlo too, had married her, though she made been only a governess without a penny, and he was a patriot and a distinguished man, with memories of things she barely even understood. It was only because he had loved her and been afraid of losing her that he had concealed the fact of his four little children. They were alone in the railway carriage; she turned and looked at him. His face was very sad, his hair was very grey. He was smoking a cigarette in an abstracted manner: he gave a long sigh that seemed to come from his heart. She took his hand, and he smiled at her with a gentle benevolent smile that made her ashamed of not being truly delighted with her newly-found family.

            “Carlo,” she said, “I will be very good to the children and try to make them happy.”

            “My lofe,” he replied, and stroked her hair.

            “Why do you still look so sad?” she asked.

            “I have many things to make me sad,” he answered tenderly, “but I have you to make me happy.” After a moment he went on suddenly: “We are going to stop at Savona. I have a sister there, and I want her to see you, my wife. She will lofe you.” A long silence followed.

            At Savona he left her at the hotel. “I will go and look for my sister,” he explained; “I will tell her that you are here, and she will come and fetch you.”

            “Let me go with you,” she said.

            “No, I will bring her to you.”

            There was no gainsaying the Count’s gentle authority, so she waited at the hotel, wondering whether the sister would speak English, and what she would say, and how she would look, and many other foolish things; for though Madame dal Mezzio was thirty years old, she had an almost girlish heart, that made her as simple and as foolish, and nearly as charming, as if she were ten years younger. But when the Count returned it was alone. He entered the bare and faded salon, which they had to themselves, with heavy steps; he shut the door, and sitting down on the sofa put his head on the arm of it, and burst into tears. In a moment his wife was on her knees besides him.

            “Oh, what is the matter?” she said, “what is the matter?” She had never seen a man cry in her whole life before; it went to her heart, and cut her like the lash of a whip. “Carlo, my poor dear Carlo, what is the matter?” She raised his head and wiped away his tears with her little cambric handkerchief—one of the two dozen that Lady Ives had given her in her trousseau. She smoothed the lines on his face with her slender white fingers, and looked up at him with so much affection that he gathered courage.

            “Oh, my lofe,” he said, “she was not there, she had gone to Genoa, for my baby; my little one of all is very ill.”

            “Your baby!” she gasped with astonishment.

            “Yes, my lofe,” and he shook his head and sighed with a sigh that was almost a sob.

            All her life Madame dal Mezzio remembered that moment, and could see her grey old husband of the indefinite family broken down with sorrow over the illness of his little child.

            “But have you—a baby?” she asked in dismay.

            “Yes, my lofe, a little baby of eighteen months. My poor wife died when it was born.”

            “Oh,” she said. It seemed as if in the whole language there was nothing else to say.

            “And it is ill,” he exclaimed, “it is very ill; we must go to it at once. We must start in the train that goes next—in two hours from now. You will lofe it?” and he looked up at her entreatingly, “you would not refuse to lofe my little baby that is very ill?”

            “Yes, I will love it,” she said, in a low voice.

            His eyes filled with tears.

            “Emmeline,” he said, “you are an angel.” Then they walked up and down the bare room together, sad and silent.

            “Oh, my lofe,” he said presently, “it is terrible to think of my little one who is ill. I have seen so much, such great men, such grand movements, so much ambition; I have worked and troubled, but I have never known anything like this—the news that my little one is ill, and there is no train for two hours. My sister is poor, she may not have money for all the things that she will want, and perhaps while I have been in England I may have lost many of my  that we will be poor too. We must lofe each other very much to makeup for this.”

            Then Madame dal Mezzio’s heart grew heavy as lead. It was all so different from what she had imagined.

            “It will come right again,” she said chokingly, “it will all come right;” but words failed her, and again they walked up and down in silence.

            “My lofe,” he said presently, “I will go and order an omelette, we must not be ill, we must make ourselves strong to bear this sorrow,” and he went slowly down the stone staircase. Then, when she was  alone, Madame dal Mezzio reproached herself for being cold and selfish. Why should she be so much dismayed on hearing of the little child’s existence? She hated herself. She thought of her young lover of a few months ago, and of how she had loved him a thousand times more than she would ever love this grey old man of many lines and cares and memories. But she gave a long sigh of thankfulness as she remembered that he had deserted her. The best that he could have given was not worth considering in the same day with the tenderness of the man who had married her, and was breaking his heart because his child was ill. Perhaps she could make his unselfish life a little better, and lighten his anxieties. As for herself, if life were not to be the holiday she had expected, why it would be something to share the working days with him. Then he came back.

            “It will be ready in ten minutes,” he said: “some macaroni, and an omelette, and some figs. You lofe green figs, Emmeline, and I saw some on the piazza as we came from the station.” He lighted a cigarette, and began to smoke it slowly.

            “My lofe,” he said, presently, “we shall be poor, we shall have to work, but you will not mind; you did not marry me for riches. It is very difficult to work and work when there are many things you  want to think of, and that make you sad—” he broke off, and then went on vehemently, “Oh, my lofe, if my sister had no money, and my little one is ill, I shall never forget that we have been spending all we had in being happy, ah! so happy, when we ought to have been miserable—”

            “But, dear,” she said, “we did not know. I have some money,” she added, and she thought of the eighty-eight pounds; “and I can teach too, then there will be more than if you taught alone.”

            “My lofe,” he said, “you are too good; but you shall be happy, for I will lofe you, and the children will lofe you, and we do not want riches, we will be simple.” Then the little meal was announced. “We will come,” the Count nodded to the waiter, “we will come in one minute.” He shut the door, and turned to his wife, “I must tell you everything,” he said; “it is better to have courage. I have seen so much and so many things in the world, I will not let myself think that I am without courage, and I will trust to you to lofe me. At Genoa there is not only the little one who is ill, but—”

            “Oh, are there any more?” she gasped.

            “Yes, my lofe,” he said, “there are more.”

            “Tell me how many?” she entreated; “let me know how many children you have altogether, and I will care for them and work for them though there are fifty, but I must know many there are.”

            He stooped, and solemnly kissed her forehead.

            “Oh, Emmeline,” he said, “you are an angel, and there are seven.”

            And together they went down to their meal.

 

 

TOP