were chloral, against the stabs of memory that assaulted me. There will
be chapters I shall never read, those that I wrote as I sat by my desk
the day after the 12th, the cold, gray light pouring in on me, sometimes
holding my pen suspended while I was having a mortal struggle with my
will, forcing back thoughts, driving my mind to work as though it were
a brute. I conquered through the day. My work did not suffer; as I read
it over I saw that I had never written better, in spite of certain pains
that almost stopped my heart. But at night! ah! if I had had a room to
myself, would I have given myself one moment of rest that night? Would I
not have written on until I slept from fatigue?
"But that could not be. Elsie moved restlessly; the light disturbed her.
For a moment I almost hated her plaintive little voice, God forgive me!
and then I undressed and slipped into bed, and so quietly I lay beside
her, that she thought I slept. I breathed evenly and lightly--I ought to
be able to countefeit sleep by this, I have done it times enough.
"Well, it is of no avail to re-live that night. I thought there was no
hope left in me, but I have been cheating myself, it seems, for it
fought hard, every inch of the ground, for survival that night, though
now I am sure it will never lift its head again.
"And now, as I said, there is nothing left in all earth for me but my
sister and my Art. "_Poëte, prends ton luth_."
"_May_ 10, 18--.
"My book is a success, that is, the world calls it a success; but in all
the years to come he will never love me again, therefore to me it is a
failure, having failed of its purpose, its reason for being. What does
he care for the fame it has brought me, since he no longer loves me?
"Had it only come a year ago!
"I went to see Mrs. ---- to-day, and I started to hear his voice in the
hall, as I sat waiting in the dim drawing-room. He was just going out,
having been upstairs, Mrs. ---- said, to look at the children's fernery;
and I, as I heard that voice, I could have gone out and thrown myself at
his feet across the threshold, those cadences so stole into my heart and
head, bringing the old madness back. I had one of the sharp attacks of
pain at the heart, and Mrs ---- sent me home in the carriage. Elsie is
in the country, well and strong. I am so glad. These illnesses frighten
her sorely. I am perhaps growing thin and weak, but I cannot die, alas!
Let the beauty go. I no longer care to preserve it.
"When I reached home, I lay in the twilight for some time on the sofa,
not having strength to get up to my room. There is, there can be, no
possible help or hope in my trouble, no fruition shall follow the
promises Spring time held for me.
"Oh, God! if there be a God! but why do I wish to pray? Have I not
prayed before, and not only no answer was vouchsafed, but no sensation
of a listening Power, a loving Presence, assuaged my pain. Yet, human or
brute, we must make our groans, though futile, when we are in the grasp
of a mortal agony.
"_June_ 20, 18--.
"I have been thankless. I have been faithless. Let me bless God's name,
for He has heard my prayer at last, and he will let me die--very soon.
"It was so cool in the doctor's office this morning. The vines about the
window made lovely shadows on the white curtains and the floor. The
light was soft. His round, ruddy German face was almost pale as he
stammered out technical terms, in reply to my questions.
"'Oh, Mees!' he said, throwing up his fat hands. 'You ask so mooch! Den,
if I frighten you, you faints, you gets worse. No, no, I will not have
it!'
"But at last, reassured by my calmness, he told me, as I leaned on the
back of his high office chair. A month more, or perhaps two. Not very
much pain, he thought. But certain. And I, faithless, have believed the
good God did not listen when I prayed!
"Little Elsie is safe and happy with our aunt. Already she seldom talks
of me. Yet I have had her, my care, my charge, for almost six years.
Children soon forget. There will be a little money for her education,
and Aunt wishes to adopt her. There is nothing that I need grieve to
leave behind.
"If he had still loved me, if it were circumstance that kept our lives
apart, I could send for him then; but to die in arms that held me only
out of compassion--glad to relinquish their burden as soon as might
be--no, I must go without seeing his face again.
"And to-night I can only feel the great gladness that it is to be.
Suppose I knew that there were twenty-five more such years as these!
Suppose it should be a mistake, and I had to live!
* * * * *
I looked from these last written words to the photograph. My eyes were
blurred, but Tom only leaned back, motionless as before, apathetic as
before.
"How long--" I began, tentatively.
"She lived a week after that," Callender replied, in his dry,
emotionless voice.
"And the man?"
"He was my brother," replied Callender. "She never saw him again. He
married Miss Stockweis about a month after."
I thought of Ralph Callender, cold, correct, slightly bored, as I have
always known him, of Miss Stockweis, a dull, purse-proud blonde.
I seized the poor little photograph and raised it reverently to my lips.
"Forgive me, Tom," I said, slightly abashed. (I never could control my
impulses.) "The best thing you can do is to thank God for her death.
Think of a woman like that--"
"Thank you," said Tom wearily. "Yes, I _am_ glad."
And then I grasped the thin brown hand in my own for a moment, and felt
it respond faintly to my clasp.
We sat as quietly as before in the cheerful, smoke-filled room, I
puffing slightly at my Ajar, and Tom's sleepless eyes fixed absently on
the wall; and then presently I went to the window and watched the dull
gray dawn creep over the still sleeping city.
"Well, here's another day," I said with a sigh, turning back to the
room. "I must go, old fellow."
There was no reply. Startled, I bent over the chair, and looked in the
face, scarcely more ivory-white than before. And then I saw that for
Callender there would be no more days.
THE END.