Dr. Kemp tossed the reins to his man, sprang from his carriage, and
hurried into his house. “Burke!” he called while closing the door,
“Burke!” He walked toward the back of the house and into the kitchen,
still calling. Finding it empty, he walked back again and began a
still hunt about the pieces of furniture in the various rooms. Being
unsuccessful, he went into his bedroom, made a hasty toilet, and hurried
again to the kitchen.
“Where have you been, Burke?” he exclaimed as that spare-looking
personage turned, spoon in hand, from the range.
“Right here, General,” he replied in surprise, “except when I went out.”
“Well; did any mail come here for me?”
“One little Billy-do, General. I put it under your dinner-plate; and
shall I serve the soup?” the last was bellowed after his master’s
retreating form.
“Wait till I ring,” he called back.
He lifted his solitary plate, snatched up the little letter, and sat
down hastily, conscious of a slight excitement.
His name and address stared at him from the white envelope in a round,
firm hand. There was something about the loop-letters that reminded him
of her, and he passed his hand caressingly over the surface. He did not
break the seal for some minutes,--anticipation is sometimes sweeter than
realization. Finally it was done, but he closed his eyes for a
second,--a boyish trick of his that had survived when he wished some
expected pleasure to spring suddenly upon him. How would she address
him? The memory of their last meeting gave him courage, and he opened
his eyes. The denouement was disconcerting. Directly under the tiny
white monogram she had begun without heading of any description:--
It was cruel of me to let you go as I did: you were hopeful when you
left. I led you to this state for a purely selfish reason. After all, it
saved you the anguish of knowing it was a final farewell; for even then
I knew it could never be. Never! Forever!--do you know the meaning of
those two long words? I do. They have burned themselves irrevocably into
my brain; try to understand them,--they are final.
I retract nothing that I said to my father in your presence; you know
exactly how I still consider what is separating us. I am wrong. Only I
am causing this separation; no one else could or would. Do not blame my
father; if he were to see me writing thus he would beg me to desist; he
would think I am sacrificing my happiness for him. I have no doubt you
think so now. Let me try to make you understand how different it really
is. I am no Jephthah’s daughter,--he wants no sacrifice, and I make
none. Duty, the hardest word to learn, is not leading me. You heard my
father’s words; but not holding him as I do, his face could not recoil
upon your heart like a death’s hand.
I am trying to write coherently and to the point: see what a coward I
am! Let me say it now,--I could never be happy with you. Do you remember
Shylock,--the old man who withdrew from the merry-making with a breaking
heart? I could not make merry while he wept; my heart would weep also.
You see how selfish I am; I am doing it for my own sake, and for no
one’s else.
And that is why I ask you now to forgive me,--because I am not noble
enough to consider you when my happiness is at stake. I suppose I am
a light person seemingly to play thus with a man’s heart. If
this reflection can rob you of regret, think me so. Does it sound
presumptuous or ironical for me to say I shall pray you may be happy
without me? Well, it is said hearts do not break for love,--that is, not
quickly. If you will just think of what I have done, surely you will
not regret your release; you may yet find a paradise with some other and
better woman. No, I am not harsh or unreasonable; even I expect to be
happy. Why should not you, then,--you, a man; I, a woman? Forget me. In
your busy, full life this should be easy. Trust me, no woman is worthy
of spoiling your life for you.
My pen keeps trailing on; like summer twilight it is loath to depart. I
am such a woman. I may never see your face again. Will you not forgive
me?
RUTH.
He looked up with a bloodless face at Burke standing with the smoking
soup.
“I--I--thought you had forgotten to ring,” he stammered, shocked at the
altered face.
“Take it away,” said his master, hoarsely, rising from his chair. “I
do not wish any dinner, Burke. I am going to my office, and must not be
disturbed.”
The man looked after him with a sadly wondering shake of his head, and
went back to his more comprehensible pots and kettles.
Kemp walked steadily into his office, lit the gas, and sat down at his
desk. He began to re-read the letter slowly from the beginning. It took
a long time, for he read between the lines. A deep groan escaped him as
he laid it down. It was written as she would have spoken; he could see
the expression of her face in the written words, and a miserable empty
feeling of powerlessness came upon him. He did not blame her,--how could
he, with that sad evidence of her breaking heart before him? He got up
and paced the floor. His head was throbbing, and a cold, sick feeling
almost overpowered him. The words of the letter repeated themselves to
him. “Paradise with some other, better woman,”--she might have left that
out; she knew better; she was only trying to cheat herself. “I too
shall be happy.” Not that, not some other man’s wife,--the thought was
demoniacal. He caught his reflection in the glass in passing. “I must
get out of this,” he laughed with dry, parched lips. He seized his hat
and went out. The wind was blowing stiffly; for hours he wrestled with
it, and then came home and wrote to her:--
I can never forgive you; love’s litany holds no such word. Be happy if
you can, my santa Filomena; it will help me much,--the fact that you are
somewhere in the world and not desolate will make life more worth the
living. If it will strengthen you to know that I shall always love you,
the knowledge will be eternally true. Wherever you are, whatever the
need, remember--I am at hand.
HERBERT KEMP.
Mr. Levice’s face was more haggard than Ruth’s when, after this answer
was received, she came to him with a gentle smile, despite the heavy
shadows around her eyes.
“It is all over, Father,” she said; “we have parted forever. Perhaps I
did not love him enough to give up so much for him. At any rate I shall
be happier with you, dear.”
“Are you sure, my darling?”
“Quite sure; and there is no more to be said of it. Remember, it is
dead and buried; we must never remind each other of it again. Kiss me,
Father, and forget that it has been.”
Mr. Levice drew a long sigh, partly of relief, partly of pain, as he
looked into her lovely, resolute face.