“Yes,” said I, “very serious. I must give you your freedom whether you want it or not.”
She passed one hand over the other on her knee, looking at the engagement ring. Then she took it off and presented it to me, lying in the palm of her right hand.
“Do what you like with it,” she said very softly.
I took the ring and slipped it on one of the right-hand fingers.
“It would comfort me to think that you are wearing it,” said I.
Then her mother came into the room and Eleanor went out. I am thankful to say that Mrs. Faversham who is a woman only guided by sentiment when it leads to a worldly advantage, applauded the step I had taken. As a sprightly Member of Parliament, with an assured political and social position, I had been a most desirable son-in-law. As an obscure invalid, coughing and spitting from a bath-chair at Bournemouth (she took it for granted that I was in the last stage of consumption), I did not take the lady's fancy.
“My dear Simon,” replied my lost mother-in-law, “you have behaved irreproachably. Eleanor will feel it for some time no doubt; but she is young and will soon get over it. I'll send her to the Drascombe-Prynnes in Paris. And as for yourself, your terrible misfortune will be as much as you can bear. You mustn't increase it by any worries on her behalf. In that way I'll do my utmost to help you.”
“You are kindness itself, Mrs. Faversham,” said I.
I bowed over the delighted lady's hand and went away, deeply moved by her charity and maternal devotion.
But perhaps in her hardness lies truth. I have never touched Eleanor's heart. No romance had preceded or accompanied our engagement. The deepest, truest incident in it has been our parting.