A BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE.
As he left the train in the early morning and crossed the Square toward
his house he was, notwithstanding a half-defiant carriage, assumed to
hide the cringing of his heart, probably the most miserable man in
Hampton. He sat down upon the bench where he had rested after his first
meeting with Berthe and, recalling that meeting, remembered how he had
striven to give a jaunty trend to his thoughts, and had tried to
persuade himself that the kissing episode was but a venial misstep,
having indeed little of dignity, but even less of sin. Behold, now, to
what it had led him!--that deed in which he had actually gloried, seeing
himself, because of it, somewhat more a man of the world than was
suspected, with experiences concerning which honor bound him to secrecy
as it did men of experience; wherefore he had despised the blabbers of
his college days, who either kissed not at all, yet boasted of such
kissing, or, displaying equal ingenuousness and greater meanness,
bragged of actual kisses. He recalled all this with real sorrow, not
unmingled with contempt for the callow youth who had sat here indulging
in boyish fancies, the wickedness whereof was surpassed only by their
shallowness. It was then, he thought, that his unconscious yet
diabolical arts upon the woman, destined to be his victim, had
commenced. Though his present misery was as great as he could bear and
his penitence sincere, nevertheless, there was an underlying
consciousness, and pride in the fact, of more than ordinary fascinating
powers, in respect of women. She had loved him from the moment she had
seen him, and had loved him to her own destruction! Though he regarded
with horror that which he believed himself to have compassed, yet the
underlying complacency was there. All these years she had been faithful
to his memory. Alas for her weakness! alas for the fate which had made
him, in respect to her, a villain! He truly repented,--was he not bowed
to the ground in humiliation and sorrow for his sin? Yet, was he wholly
responsible, he who had, in ignorance, exercised seductive powers,
possessed in ignorance?
The inner being of this man, of noble outward form, was not cast in
heroic mould, such moulds being seldom used in the fashioning of our
neighbors; yet he was no unusual product, being the inevitable result of
various influences, for most of which he was not responsible. An
idolized child, a boy of wondrous promise as of wondrous beauty, a youth
completely filling all promises of boyhood, early called to the service
of Heaven, and so, somewhat set apart and cherished with a care
befitting a sacred vessel, to be guarded from every rude touch lest its
perfection be endangered,--thus he had been fitted for the world. Every
natural healthy instinct had been bent and distorted by the loving hands
of ignorance, while equally natural impulses had been ignored as
unwholesome weeds, which would find no place in a nature dedicated and
cultivated for Heaven. He had been esteemed as somewhat higher than
ordinary humanity, while human vices had been nourished in him so that
they bore blossoms so fair to look upon that they were as virtues. His
innate vanity had been so fostered that it had become the central
product of his moral being, permeating every thought, mingled with every
act. His most patent and engaging graces had been developed by this
vice. His frankness, his amiability, his generosity, his mental
aptitude, were all means for winning the esteem he craved, and had been
employed, in fact, to that end. They were real virtues. He was in
goodness all he seemed to be. The kindness of heart for which he was
praised and loved, even this excellence aided in the nurture of that
self-complacency which led him to ascribe the woman's undoing to his
witchery, rather than to her willingness.
As he raised his eyes and caught sight of his home, and knew that he
must enter the house, the subtle consolation which had formed the
undercurrent of his despondency was forgotten, or, perhaps, its utter
worthlessness for the moment recognized. The whole horrible load of
regret weighed again upon him, crushing his spirit. There was no comfort
now in any phase of his reflections. He had gone forth from the home of
his innocent boyhood, as of his worthy manhood, unhappy, indeed, but
claiming and receiving the respect of all his fellows. Now, he must
creep back, so vile a creature that he dreaded to meet the eyes even of
his servants.
As to his wife, though he had left her without good-bye, and though
there had been estrangement between them, he knew that he must meet her
face to face, and while he dreaded the meeting, still he longed for it
and longed to throw himself upon his knees before her and confess. As to
that which had estranged them, it seemed a trifle to him now. Let her
have her will; if therein there was to be punishment for him, was he not
willing to do penance all his days? As to those confidences made by
Berthe, while he believed them, he believed only what he had been told.
As to seriously thinking of actual guilt in connection with Natalie, she
was too truly estimated by him, and he too truly innocent, still, to
harbor base suspicions. But he knew that she had not loved him, and in
the dismal oppression caused by his own misdeeds this conviction created
a distinct and sharp pain, and yet it had its own alleviation. He, too,
had something to forgive, and did forgive, even now, before forgiveness
had been granted him. Yes, he would meet her face to face, and there
should be repentance between them and, as each had done wrong, so each
would do all that could be done in reparation, and if the sacrifice she
had demanded of him be still required, he would make it.
And thus, while Natalie, in the cemetery, had seen the way to
reconciliation with her husband, and had recognized that she had wronged
him, and in that recognition had found in her heart a greater love for
him than she had known before, so he with similar thoughts, though more
confusedly and with less honesty, though not consciously dishonest,
slowly made his way toward the house. He entered by means of his
latchkey, meeting nobody, and went at once to the library. It was still
early: doubtless Natalie was in her room. He was not sorry for a
respite.
He was faint and felt the need of refreshment. No doubt, the maids were
about, so he went toward the bell, then drew back, recognizing in his
action his dread of meeting any occupant of the house. Then he
remembered that in his valise was a small bottle of champagne. He was
not sorry, now, for Berthe's foresight, and in his heart thanked her. He
recalled how pleasantly this wine had affected him, how it had given him
courage, and how his horrible depression had vanished under its
influence. Notwithstanding his resolve to resume his old practice of
abstinence in regard to wine, he was glad that he had this chance
bottle, for he had never needed courage more than now. He wished he had
some food, for he had eaten but little for many hours; the wine would
serve until he had the courage to ask for food.
While he was opening his bottle the front-door bell rang. The library,
its doorway hung with heavy curtains, faced the entrance to the house.
Leonard, peeping between the curtains, saw Mark Claghorn admitted and
ushered by the servant into the drawing-room.
The sight of Mark, whom he had supposed in Europe, aroused his anger. He
hated Mark as one who had gained a love that should have been his own.
Under the circumstances he was not sorry that his presence in the house
was unknown. Mark, who was noted as an early riser, had probably ridden
over from Stormpoint on some trifling errand, and, soon after Natalie
appeared, would doubtless leave the house.
And so he waited, thirstily quaffing the champagne and wishing he had a
biscuit. He tried not to think of the visitor in the drawing-room, but
found that effort vain, thinking of him, in fact, with fast-rising
anger, until he was on the point of seeking the man to force a quarrel
on him which should banish the intruder from the house forever.
He was arrested in this intention by hearing Mark emerge from the
drawing-room and walk quickly to the front door. Leonard peeped through
the curtains and saw his wife, with her arms outspread, fall upon Mark's
breast, and heard her cry aloud:
"My darling, my darling, welcome home!" and with upturned face she drew
Mark's downward, kissing his lips as she had never kissed the watcher.
Who staggered backward, sinking into a chair, dazed as by a blow.
Her face had been illumined, glowing with happiness. Her dancing eyes,
her outspread arms, her lips upturned, her gladness unrestrained, so
impatient in her longing that she could not wait for greater privacy
than the hall--in these he had seen a woman never seen by him before.
This was Mark's welcome home. What was his to be?
Great tears streamed down his face; of wounded vanity, of love and trust
betrayed, of growing fury. His moods followed fast one upon another. Now
sunk in profounder depths of sorrow than any yet sounded, now raging
with frantic lust for vengeance upon the woman and her lover.
Even while chaotic fancies whirled in his brain he could hear the murmur
of their talk, ecstatic dalliance which he would interrupt.
Yes, he would disconcert their cooing, cover the pair with humiliation,
eject the glib intruder and bring the woman to her knees.
But he could not move. He was chained to his chair. A horrible
fluttering of his heart made him gasp for breath, his head fell back,
his face and lips were white. The want of food, the nervous depression,
the rage and exhaustion, all intensified by the sharp and unaccustomed
fillip of the wine, had done their work. At first it was fainting, then
came slumber.