Helen had not seen the paragraph about Harmon. She rarely read
newspapers, and generally trusted to other people to learn what they
contained. The majority read papers for amusement, or for the sort of
excitement produced on nervous minds by short, strong shocks often
repeated. There are persons who ponder the paper daily for half an hour
in absorbed silence, and then lift up their voices and cackle out all
they have read, as a hen runs about and cackles when she has laid an
egg. They fly at every one they see, an unnatural excitement in every
tone and gesture, and ask in turn whether each friend has heard that
this one is engaged to be married, and that another is dead and has left
all his money to a hospital. When they have asked all the questions
they can think of, without waiting for an answer, they relapse into
their normal condition, and become again as other men and women are.
Very few really read the papers in order to follow the course of events
for the mere sake of information. Mrs. Harmon was more or less
indifferent to things that neither directly concerned her nor appealed
to her tastes and sympathies.
Her letters were brought to her before she had left the sitting-room
after the colonel had gone away, and she looked at the addresses on them
carelessly, passing them from one hand to the other as one passes cards.
One arrested her attention, among the half-dozen or so which she had
received. It was the regular report from the asylum, posted on the
first of the month. But it was thicker than usual; and when she tore
open the envelope, rather nervously and with a sudden anticipation of
trouble, a second sealed letter dropped from the single folded sheet
contained in the first. But even that one sheet was full, instead of
bearing only the few lines she always received to tell her that there
was no change in her husband's condition.
There had been a change, and a great one. Since last writing, said the
doctor, Harmon had suddenly begun to improve. At first he had merely
seemed more quiet and patient than formerly; then, in the course of a
few days, he had begun to ask intelligent questions, and had clearly
understood that he had been insane for some time and was still in an
asylum. He had rapidly learned the names of the people about him, and
had not afterwards confused them, but remembered them with remarkable
accuracy. Day by day he had improved, and was still improving. He had
enquired about the state of his affairs, and had wished to see one or
two of his old friends. More than once he had asked after his wife, and
had evidently been glad to hear that she was well. Then he had written
a letter to her, which the doctor immediately forwarded. So far as it
was possible to form a judgment in the case, the improvement seemed to
promise permanent recovery; though no one could tell, of course, whether
a return to the world might not mean also a return to the unfortunate
habit which had originally unbalanced Harmon's mind, but from which he
was safe as long as he remained where he was.
It was not easy for Helen to read to the end of such a letter: it shook
in her hands as she went on from one sentence to the next, and the
sealed envelope slipped from her knees to the floor while she was
reading. When she had got to the end, she stared a moment at the
signature, and then folded the sheet, almost unconsciously, and drew her
nail sharply along the folds, as though she would make the paper feel
what she felt, and suffer as she suffered, in every nerve of her body,
and in every secret fibre of her soul.
She had not believed a recovery possible. Now that it was a fact, she
knew how utterly beyond probability she had thought it; and immediately
the great problem rose before her, confusing, vast, terrifying. But
before she faced it she must read Harmon's letter.
It had fallen to the floor, and she had to look for it and find it and
pick it up. The handwriting was large, somewhat ornamental, yet heavy
in parts and not always regular. As she glanced at the address, she
remembered how she had disliked the writing when she had first seen it,
at a time when she had seen much to admire in Harmon himself. Now she
did not like to touch the envelope on which he had written her name, and
she unreasoningly feared the contact of the sheet it held, as of
something that might defile her and must surely hurt her cruelly. The
hand that had traced the characters on the paper was the hand that had
struck her and left its mark for all her life. And as she remembered the
rest, an enormous loathing of the man who was still her husband took
possession of her, so that she could not open the letter for a few
moments.
It was at once a loathing of bodily disgust, like a sickness, and a
mental horror of a creature who was so far from her natural nobility
that it frightened her to know how she hated him, and she began to fear
the letter itself, lest it should make some great change in her for
which she should at last hate herself also. The spasm ran all through
her, as the sight of some very disgusting evil thing violently disturbs
body and mind at the same time.
The temptation to destroy the letter unread came upon her with all
possible force, and the vision of a return to peace was before her eyes,
as though the writing were already burned and beyond her power to
recover. But that would be cowardly, and she was brave. With drawn
lips, pale cheeks, and knitted brows she opened it, took out the folded
contents, and began to read. As though to remind her of the place where
he was, and of all the circumstances from first to last, the name of the
asylum was printed at the head of each sheet in small, businesslike
letters.
She began to read:
MY DEAR HELEN,--You will be surprised to hear directly from me, I
suppose, and I can hardly expect that you will be pleased, though you
are too good not to be glad that I am better after my long illness. I
have a great many things to write to you, and no particular right to
hope that you will read them. Will you? I hope so, for I do not mean
to write again until I get an answer to this letter. But if you do read
this one, please believe that I am quite in my right senses again, and
that I mean all I say. Besides, the doctor has written to you. He
considers me almost 'safe' now. I mean, safe to remain as I am.
It is not easy for me to write to you. You must hate me, of course.
God knows, I have given you reason enough to wish that I might stay here
for the rest of my life. You are a very good woman, and perhaps you
will forgive me for all I have done to hurt you. That is the main thing
I wanted to say. I want to ask your pardon and forgiveness for
everything, from beginning to end.
'Everything' is a big word, I know. There has been a great deal during
these many years,--a great deal more than I like to think of; for the
more I think of it, the less I see how you can forgive even the half,
much less forget it.
I was not myself, Helen. You have a right to say that it was my fault
if I was not myself. I drank hard. That is not an excuse, I know; but
it was the cause of most of the things I did. No woman can ever
understand how a man feels who drinks, and has got so far that he cannot
give it up. How should she? But you know that most men cannot give it
up, and that it is a sort of disease, and can be treated scientifically.
But I do not mean to make excuses. I only ask your forgiveness, and in
order to forgive me you will find better excuses for me than I could
invent for myself. I throw myself upon your kindness, for that is the
only thing I can do.
They say that it would not be quite safe for me to leave the asylum for
another month or two, and I am quite resigned to that; for the life is
quiet here, and I feel quiet myself and hate the idea of excitement. I
suppose I have had too much of it.
But by and by they will insist upon my leaving, when I am considered
quite cured; and then I want to go back to you, and try to make you
happy, and do my best to make up to you for all the harm I have done
you. Perhaps you think it is impossible, but I am very much changed
since you saw me.
I know what I am asking, dear Helen. Do not think I ask it as though it
were a mere trifle. But I know what you are and what you have done.
You could have got a divorce over and over again, and I believe you
could now if you liked. It is pretty easy in some states, and I suppose
I could not find much to say in defence. Yet you have not done it. I
do not know whether you have ever thought of it.
If you think of it now that I want to come back to you and try to do
better, and make you happy, for God's sake give me another chance before
you take any step. Give me one more chance, Helen, for the sake of old
times. You used to like me once, and we were very happy at first.
Then--well, it was all my fault, it was every bit of it my fault, and I
would give my soul to undo it. If you will forgive me, we can try
together and begin over again, and it shall all be different, for I will
be different.
Can we not try? Will you try? It will be easy if you will only let us
begin. It is not as if we should have other troubles to deal with, for
we have plenty of friends and plenty of money, and I will do the rest.
I solemnly promise that I will, if you will forgive me and begin over
again. I know it must seem almost impossible. It would be quite
impossible for any other woman, though you can do it if you will.
I shall wait for your answer, before I write again, though it will seem
a very long time, and I am very anxious about it. If it is what I hope
it will be, perhaps you will cable a few words, even one word.
'Forgiven' is only one word. Will you not say it? Will you not give me
one chance more? Oh, Helen dear, for God's sake, do! H.
Helen read the letter to the end, through every phrase and every
repetition. Then the fight began, and it was long and bitter, a battle
to death, of which she could not see the issue.
The man wrote in earnest, and sincerely meant what he said. No one
could read the words and doubt that. Helen believed all he had written,
so far as his intention was concerned, but she could not cut his life in
two and leave out of the question the man he had been, in order to
receive without fear or disgust the man he professed himself to be.
That was too much to ask of any woman who had suffered what she had of
neglect, of violence, of shame.
'No one could tell,' the doctor wrote, 'whether a return to the world
might not mean also a return to the unfortunate habit'--no one could
tell that. And Harmon himself wrote that most men could not give it up,
that it was a disease, and that no woman could understand it. What
possible surety could he give that it should never get hold of him
again? None. But that was only a small matter in the whole question.
If she had ever loved him, perhaps if she could have felt that he had
ever loved her truly, it would have been different. But she could not.
Why had he married her? For her beauty. The shame of it rose in her
eyes as she sat alone, and she could not help turning her face from the
light.
For love's sake, even for an old love, outraged long ago and scarred
past recognizing, she could have forgiven much. Old memories, suddenly
touched, are always more tender than we have thought they were, till the
tears rise for them, and the roots of the old life stir in the heart.
Helen had nothing of that. She had made the great mistake of marrying a
man whom she had not loved, but whom she had admired, and perhaps
believed in, more than she understood. She had married him because he
seemed to love her very much, and the thought of being so loved was
pleasant. She had soon found out what such love meant, and by and by
she had seen how traces of it survived in Henry Harmon, when all thought
of honouring her, or even of respecting her, was utterly gone.
A bitter laugh rang through the quiet room, and she started, for it was
her own voice. She was to forgive! Did he know what he was asking, and
for what things he was praying forgiveness? Yet when he was sober he
had generally remembered what he had done when he had been drunk. That
is to say, he had seemed to have the faculty of remembering what he
chose to recall, and of forgetting everything else. She was to forgive
what he chose to remember!
'Oh, Helen dear, for God's sake, do!' She could see the last written
words of his letter before her eyes, though the sheet was folded and
bent double in her tightly closed hand. He meant it, and it was an
appeal for mercy. She hated herself for having laughed so cruelly a
moment earlier. There was a cry in the words, quite different from all
he had written before them. It did not touch her, it hardly appealed to
her at all, but somehow it gave him the right to be heard, for it was
human.
Then she went over all he said, though it hurt her. She was not a woman
of quick impulses, and she knew that what was left of her life was in
the balance. Even he seemed to acknowledge that, for he spoke of a
possibility of freedom for her by divorce. To speak so easily of it, he
must have thought of it often, and that meant that it was really an easy
matter, as Colonel Wimpole had said. It was in her power, and she had
free will. He knew that she had a choice, and that she could either
take him back, now that he was cured, or make it utterly out of the
question for him to approach her. He said as much, when he implored her
to give him one more chance 'before taking any step.' She went over and
over it all, for hours. In the cool of the evening she opened the
blinds, collected her letters, and then sat down again, no nearer to a
decision than she had been at first. A servant came and told her that
Colonel Wimpole was downstairs. He had written a word on his card,
asking to see her again.
Her first impulse was the natural one. She would let him come in and
she would lay the whole matter before him, as before the best friend she
had in the world, and ask him how she should act. There was not in all
the world a man more honourable and just. She would let him come to
her.
The words were on her lips, while the servant stood in the open door,
waiting for her answer. She checked herself with an effort. She wrote a
line and gave it to the man.
She would not see Wimpole just then, for it would not be fair to him nor
perhaps quite just to Harmon. Wimpole loved her, though he was quite
unaware that she knew it. She believed firmly that when he had advised
her that very afternoon to divorce her husband, he was thinking only of
her happiness; but he had advised it, all the same, just because he
believed that Harmon might recover. He could not change his mind now
that what he feared for her was taking place. How could he? He would
use every argument in his power, and he would find many good ones,
against her returning to her husband. He could influence her against
her free will, and far more than he could guess, because she loved him
secretly as much as he loved her. It was bitter not to see him, and
tell him, and ask his help; it was desperately hard, but as soon as she
saw that it was right, she wrote the words that must send him away,
before she could have time to hesitate. Deep in her heart, too, there
was a thought for him. Loving her as he did, it would not be easy for
him, either, to go into the whole matter. His honour and his love would
have to fight it out. So she sent him away.
Then Archie came into the room, vague and childish at first, but with an
odd look in his eyes, and he began to talk to her about Sylvia Strahan
in a way that frightened her, little by little, as he went on.
"Marry me to her, mother," he said at last, as though asking for the
simplest thing. "I want to be married, and I want Sylvia. I never saw
any other girl whom I wanted."