Whoso Findeth a Wife

by William Le Queux

The popular excitement consequent from the belief that war was to be declared had died down, although in the Foreign Office the reason of the sudden abandonment of Russia’s intentions remained an inscrutable mystery, while the panic on the Stock Exchange had enriched a few and ruined many. Parliament had risen for the recess, and Beck had taken a party in his yacht to the Norwegian fiords, Ella and Mrs Laing declining his invitation to join them. This course had been adopted at my suggestion. When Ella had spoken to me of their proposed cruise, I at once demurred, for although I had also been asked, I found absence from the Foreign Office impossible, owing to several delicate negotiations at that moment proceeding, and therefore urged her to remain in London. This she did at once, declining the invitation on behalf of both herself and her mother. The latter, who was not a good sailor, secretly thanked me for rescuing her from what she termed “three weeks of misery,” and, truth to tell, although no longer jealous of Beck’s attention to Ella, I was glad to have her remain in town.

Through the hot, stifling August days, when London was what is termed “empty,” Mrs Laing and her daughter still lived in Pont Street. During the first three weeks following my visit to Sonia I called only twice, but meantime Ella was, I know, suffering tortures of doubt and anxiety. She had been trained in a school of self-repression, and it now stood her in good stead. She could not, however, prevent her cheeks being pale, neither could she help her eyes looking dilated and odd. Speech was difficult and smiles impossible; otherwise she held her own, and only I felt the difference, and knew that there lay a deep gulf of suspicion between us.

On the two occasions on which I had called we had no confidential chat, and the formal hours went by almost in silence. I had received positive proof from Renouf that she had been a constant visitor to Sonia, and it was impossible to talk with frivolity in that oppressive atmosphere of doubt. Mrs Laing, I noticed, hung her gold pince-nez high upon her nose in wonder. Ella was thus consuming herself with anxiety, while I, struggling along from day to day, saw my last hope growing thinner and yet more shadowy, and looming through it—despair.

Then at last, five weeks after Sonia’s flight, I called at Pont Street and demanded of Ella the reason she had visited the house in Pembroke Road. Her reply was quite unexpected. She told me quite calmly that they had been schoolfellows at Neuilly, and that, finding Sonia had lost both her parents, she went to Pembroke Road each day to bear the bereaved girl company. She was in ignorance regarding Sonia’s life since she had left the French school, and expressed surprise that she should have departed suddenly without telling her of her destination. Her replies to my inquiries set my mind at rest upon several points. It appeared quite plain that Ella herself had told Sonia of her engagement to me and had described the tragic incident at Staines, therefore the pretty refugee had been enabled to drop those ingenious hints at mystery that had so sorely puzzled me, and had cleverly secured my interests on her behalf.

When I realised how artfully I had been tricked, I ground my teeth, and Ella, standing statuesque on the opposite side of the drawing-room in strong relief against a background of dark, glossy palms and broad-leaved tropical plants, noticed my anger. The light fell upon her red-brown hair and upon her slightly upturned face, showing its delicate modelling in its almost childish roundness. Her profile was quite as charming as her full face, perhaps more so, as it had the advantage of the curl and sweep of the eyelashes and of the fine line of the upper lip.

She eyed me gravely, but spoke no word.

Yet in that instant I knew I had misjudged her, that through those long, anxious weeks while I had entertained dark suspicions she had nevertheless still loved me honestly and truly. I know not what words I uttered, but a few moments later I found her sobbing in my fond embrace. Her tears were tears of joy.

The silence was long. We had so much to think about that we forgot to speak, but presently, when she dried her blue eyes with her flimsy lace handkerchief and seated herself, I took the tiny hand lying idly in her lap and laid my cheek down on the tender, rosy palm.

“How I wish that this night could last for ever,” I said, with a sigh of supreme contentment. “In my memory it will live always.”

“Always?” she echoed, looking tenderly into my face; then for the first time she put her arms around me and held me tightly pressed against her heart.