It was Miss Ludington herself who, stirring unusually early, discovered
Ida's flight on going to her room.
Paul opened his eyes a few minutes later to see her standing by his
bedside, the picture of consternation.
"She is gone!" she exclaimed.
"Who is gone?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.
"Ida has gone. Her room is empty."
Hastily dressing, he rejoined her in Ida's chamber, and together they
went over the letters she had left.
If the revelation which they contained had been made when she had been in
the house a shorter time, its effect might have been very different. But
it had come too late to produce the revulsion of feeling it might then
have caused. True, it was under a false name that she had first won their
confidence, but it was the girl herself they had learned to love. If her
name proved to be Ida Slater, why it was Ida Slater whom they loved. It
was the person, not the name.
"Oh, why did she leave us!" cried Miss Ludington, with streaming eyes, as
she finished Ida's letter to Paul. "Why did she not come to us and tell
us! We would have forgiven her. She was not so much to blame as her
parents. How can we blame her when we think how happy she has made us!
Oh, Paul! we must find her. We must bring her back."
He pressed her hand in silence. His darling, his heart's love, had gone
away from him, out into the world, and he knew not where to find her, and
yet it would be hard to say whether there was not more of exultation than
of despair in the mingled emotions which just then deprived him of the
power of speech.
He had comprehended perfectly well her confession of the deception which
she had practised on them, but the portion of her letter which had
chiefly affected him had been the impassioned avowal of her love for him.
After his recent trying ordeal in striving to subject an earthly love to
spiritual conditions, culminating the night before in the renunciation of
the hope of ever marrying her at all, there was an intoxicating happiness
in the discovery that she was every whit as earthly as he, and loved him
with a passion as ardent as his own. He was a Pygmalion, whose statue had
become a woman. For the first time he now realized how far his heart had
travelled from the spirit-love which once had been enough for it, and how
impossible it was that it should ever again find satisfaction in the dim
and nebulous emotion in which it had so long rested. With a sense of
recreancy that was wholly shameless, he realized that it was no longer
Ida Ludington, but Ida Slater, whom he loved.
Little did the forlorn girl, in her self-imposed exile, imagine what a
welcome would have met her if, moved by some intuition, she had retraced
her steps that morning to the chamber which a few hours before she had
deserted.
Repentance often is so fine that in the moral balance it quite outweighs
the fault repented of, and so it was in her case. Such repentance is as
if the black stalk of sin had blossomed and put forth a fragrant flower.
These two persons, whom she had expected to loathe her as soon as they
should know the truth, had from the first reading of her story been more
impressed with the chivalrous instinct which had driven her to abandon
her role of fraud when it was about to be crowned with dazzling success,
than with her original offence in entering upon it. The effect of her
story was in this respect a curious one for a confession to produce: it
had added to the affection which they had previously entertained for her,
an appreciation of the nobility of her character which they had not then
possessed.
Paul's heart yearned after its mistress in her self-humiliation and
voluntary banishment as never before. This impassioned and most human
woman, who had shown herself capable of wrong, and, also, of most
generous renunciation, had struck a deeper chord in his breast than had
ever vibrated to the touch of the flawless seraph he had supposed her to
be.
Having canvassed all possible methods of reaching Ida in her flight, it
was decided by Paul and his aunt to begin by advertising, and that same
day the following notice was inserted in all the daily papers of Brooklyn
and New York;--
"IDA S----R.--All is forgiven; only come back. We cannot live without
you. For pity's sake at least write to us.
"Miss L---- AND PAUL."
This advertisement was to remain in the papers till forbidden. If Ida was
anywhere in the two cities or vicinity, the chances were that it would
fall under the notice of herself or some of her family. Before inserting
the advertisement Paul had visited Mrs. Legrand's house in East Tenth
Street; but, as he had expected, he found that the family had moved away
long previously, probably with a view to avoid detection, and to enable
Mrs. Legrand to obtain business elsewhere.
A week passed without any response to the advertisement. Paul spent his
days walking the streets of New York and Brooklyn at random, for the sake
of the chance, about one in ten billions, that he might meet Ida.
Anything was more endurable than sitting at home waiting, and by dint of
tramping all day long he was so dead tired when he reached home at night
that he could sleep, which otherwise would have been out of the question.
About the middle of the week a bundle arrived, containing the dress Ida
had worn away, with her hat and cloak, but without a word of writing;
Paul devoured them with kisses. A study of the express markings showed
that the package must have been sent from Brooklyn, which went to show
that Ida was in that city. Believing that she did not intend to respond
to the advertisement, Paul had determined, if he did not hear from her
within a few days, to employ a prominent New York detective firm to
search for her. If he could but once see her face to face, he was sure
that he could bring her back.
A week from the day on which she had fled he was starting out as usual,
early in the morning, for another day of hopeless, weary tramping in the
city, when the postman handed him a letter addressed in her handwriting.
It was to him like a voice from the grave, and read as follows:--
"I have seen your advertisement for me. I cannot believe that you have
forgiven me. You could not do it. It is impossible. Even if I could
believe it, I do not think I should ever have the courage to face you
after what you know of me. I should die of shame. Oh, Paul! if you could
see how my cheeks burn as I write this, and know that you will see it.
But I cannot deny myself the happiness of writing to you. There is no
reason why we should not write sometimes, is there? though we never see
each other. Does Miss Ludington really forgive me, or does she merely
consent to have me return because you still care for me? If you do still
care for me--Oh, Paul! I cannot believe it--do you forget what I have
done? Read over again the letter I left for you when I came away. You
must have forgotten it. Read it carefully. Think it all over. Oh, no,
you cannot love me still!
"IDA SLATER."
Paul replied with the first love-letter he had ever written, and one that
any woman who loved him must have found irresistible. He enclosed a note
from Miss Ludington, assuring Ida of the unhappiness which her flight had
caused them, the undiminished tenderness which they cherished for her;
and the cruelty she would be guilty of if she refused to return.
In response to these letters there came a note saying simply, "I will
come."
On the evening of the day this note was received, as Paul and Miss
Ludington were together in the sitting-room talking as usual of Ida, and
wondering on what day she would return, there was a light step at, the
open door, and she glided into the room, and, throwing herself on her
knees before Miss Ludington, hid her face in her lap.
It was an hour before she would raise her head, replying the while only
with sobs to the kisses and caresses showered upon her, and the
assurances of love and welcome poured into her ears.
When at last she lifted her face her embarrassment was so distressing
that in pity Miss Ludington told Paul he might take her out for a walk in
the dark.
When they came back her cheeks were flushed as redly as when she went
out; but, despite her shame, she looked very happy.
"She is to be my wife in two weeks from to-day," said Paul, exultantly.
"I ought not to let him marry me. I know I ought not. I am not fit for
him," faltered Ida; "but I cannot refuse him anything, and I love him
so!"
"You are quite fit for him," said Miss Ludington, kissing her, "and I can
well believe he loves you. It would be strange, indeed, if he did not.
You are a noble and a tender woman, and he will be very happy."
In the days that followed, Ida was at first much puzzled to account not
only for the evident genuineness of the esteem which her friends
cherished for her, but for the fact that it seemed to have been enhanced
rather than diminished by the recent events. Instead of regarding her
repentance as at most offsetting her offence, they apparently looked upon
it as a positive virtue redounding wholly to her credit. It was quite as
if she had made amends for another person a sin, in contrast with whose
conduct her own nobility stood out in fine relief.
And that, in fact, is exactly the way they did look at it. Their habit of
distinguishing between the successive phases of an individual life as
distinct persons, made it impossible for them to take any other view of
the matter.
In their eyes the past was good or bad for itself, and the present good
or bad for itself, and an evil past could no more shadow a virtuous
present than a virtuous present could retroact to brighten or redeem an
ugly past. It is the soul that repents which is ennobled by repentance.
The soul that did the deed repented of is past forgiving. There was no
affectation on the part of Paul or Miss Ludington of ignoring the fraud
which Ida had practised, or pretending to forget it. This was not
necessary out of any consideration for her feelings, for they did not
hold that it was she who was guilty of that fraud, but another person.
As gradually she comprehended the way in which they looked upon her, and
came to perceive that they unquestioningly held that she had no
responsibility for her past self, but was a new being, she was filled
with a great exhilaration, the precise like of which was, perhaps, never
before known to a repentant wrong-doer. As they believed, so would she
believe. With a great joy she put the shameful past behind her and took
up her new life. "As a man thinketh in his heart so is he."
If she had loved Paul before, if she had before felt tenderly toward Miss
Ludington, a passion of gratitude now intensified her love, her
tenderness, a thousand-fold.
Miss Ludington's failing health was the only shadow on the perfect
happiness of the lovers during those two weeks of courtship. Compared
with the intoxicating reality of these golden days Paul looked back on
his wooing of the supposed Ida Ludington as a vague and unsatisfying
dream.
Now that Ida was no longer playing a part, he was really just becoming
acquainted with her, and finding out what manner of maiden it was to whom
he had lost his heart. Each day, almost each hour, discovered to him some
new trait, some unsuspected grace of mind or heart, till, in this glowing
girl, so bright, so blithe, so piquant, he had difficulty in recognizing
any likeness, save of face and form, to the moody, freakish, melancholy,
hysterical, and altogether eerie Ida Ludington.
"I am so glad," Miss Ludington said to her one day, "that you are Ida
Slater, and not my Ida."
"Why are you glad?" Ida asked. "Would you not have been happier if you
had gone on believing me to be your girlish self?"
"I should have grown very sad by this time if I had continued to think
that you were she?" replied Miss Ludington. "I have not long to live,
and it is far more important to me that she should be there to welcome me
when I go over than that I should have her here with me for a few days
before I go. If she were here on earth the thought of so soon leaving her
behind would sadden me as much as the hope of meeting her now gladdens
me."
Miss Ludington neither talked herself nor permitted others to talk in a
melancholy tone of the probable nearness of her end. "Death may seem
dreadful," she said to Ida one day, "to the foolish people who fancy that
an individual dies but once, forgetting that their present selves are but
the last of many selves already dead. The death which may now be near me
is no sadder, no more important, than the deaths of my past selves, and
no different, save in the single respect that this time no later self
will follow me. This house of our individuality, which has sheltered us
in turn, having become incapable of being repaired for the use of
subsequent tenants, is to be pulled down. That is all."
Another time she said, "It is very strange to see people who dread death
always looking for it instead of backward. In their fear of dying once
they quite forget that they have died already many times. It is the most
foolish of all things to imagine that by prolonging the career of the
individual, death is kept at bay. The present self must die in any case
by the inevitable process of time, whether the body be kept in repair for
later selves or not. The death of the body is but the end of the daily
dying that makes up earthly life."
They were married in the sitting-room before the picture that had exerted
so strong an influence upon their lives. The servants were invited in,
but there was no company. Ida wore a white satin with a low corsage, and
as she stood directly below the picture, the resemblance impressed the
beholders very strikingly. It was as if the girl had stepped down from
the picture to be married.
Ida had demurred a little to standing just there, which had been the
suggestion of Miss Ludington. She was not without a vague superstition
that the spirit of the girl whose lover she had stolen away would not
wish her well. But when she hinted this, Miss Ludington replied, "You
must not think of it that way. What has a spirit like her to do with
earthly passions? Your love has saved Paul from a dream as vain as it was
beautiful, and which, had it gone on, might have gained a morbid strength
and blighted his life. I like to fancy, and I know it is Paul's belief,
that the spirit of my Ida influenced you to come to us just as you came,
that under her form Paul might fall in love with you. In no other way but
just this do I believe he could have been cured of his infatuation."
Owing to the precarious condition of Miss Ludington's health, Paul and
Ida would not consent to leave home for any bridal trip.
It was but a week after the wedding that, on going into Miss Ludington's
room as usual the first thing in the morning, Ida found her dead. She
must have expired very quietly, if not, indeed, in her sleep, for her
room adjoined that of the bridal couple, and she could have summoned Ida
with the touch of a bell. Her features were relaxed in a smile of joyous
recognition.
* * * * * *
Paul took his wife to Europe directly after the funeral. One night,
during their absence, a fire, probably set by tramps, broke out in one of
the empty houses of the village, and, the wind being high and no help
near, all the buildings on the place, including the homestead, were
completely destroyed. The latter being shut up, nothing even of the
furniture could be saved, and the entire contents, including the picture
in the sitting-room, were consumed. The tourists were much shocked by the
receipt of the intelligence, but Paul expressed the inmost conviction of
both when he finally said, "Now that she is gone, perhaps it is as well.
Ashes to ashes! The past has claimed its own."
They never rebuilt the village or the homestead, but on their return to
this country took up their residence in New York. The site of the mimic
Hilton is once more tilled as a farm.
It is scarcely necessary to add that Ida made such provision for her
family as enabled them to retire from the medium business. Paul insisted
that this provision should be at the most generous nature, for was he not
indebted to them for the happiness of his life? He never would admit that
Mrs. Legrand was a fraud, but always maintained that none but a truly
great medium could have materialized the vaguest of love-dreams into the
sweetest of wives.
As for Dr. Hull, or, rather, Mr. Slater, he became in time quite a crony
of Paul's, and the book on which the latter is engaged, setting forth the
argument for the immortality of past selves, will owe not a little to the
suggestions of the old gentleman.