“No; she is very busy painting, and Alva loves art better than society, you know. Besides, she has a companion—a lovely young girl whom she has employed as a model.”
Alva’s letter had not been very long, and she had chronicled the finding of Floy in one careless paragraph:
“Floyd Landon was so fortunate as to find Cupid the very day you left the city, and brought her to me at once, so I hope to finish my picture before your return.”
St. George, in his bitter despair over Floy’s supposed death, took no interest in his sister’s pretty model, and Mrs. Beresford, of course, had no idea that her son’s sweetheart was domiciled beneath her roof, while her lover mourned her as dead.
The mere utterance of her name by St. George would have solved the mystery, and saved him hours and days and weeks of pain, hastening his recovery by the force of joy; for the influence of mental emotions on the bodily health is too well known to be disputed, and the effects of grief and sorrow in breaking down health and retarding recovery are especially significant.
So the long summer days waxed and waned until it was well into July before the invalid’s tedious convalescence became confirmed enough for him to be removed from his room to a pleasant place by the sea. Here he remained for a week, gaining strength more rapidly, and at last asking to be taken home.
A fancy had seized him to revisit the scenes made sacred by their connection with his lost love, and to find her lonely little grave, unmarked perhaps by monument or flower, and to raise a costly stone above the spot.
But he did not confide these thoughts to his parents.
The subject had never been revived between them again.
St. George had a bitter, secret consciousness that he did not have their sympathy in his sorrow, and that at heart the death of his betrothed was a relief to them.