"Chris left this morning. He put a little packet into my hands at the
last moment, saying it was the most precious thing he possessed, and
that when I looked at it I was to think of him who loved it. Of
course I guessed what it was, but I did not open it till I was alone
in my room. It is the picture of myself that he has been so secret
about, but oh, so beautiful. I wonder if I am really as beautiful as
this. But I wish he had not made me look so sad. I am kissing the
little lips. I love them, because he loved to kiss them. Oh,
sweetheart! it will be long before you kiss them again. Of course it
was right for him to go, and I am glad he has been able to manage it.
He could not study properly in this quiet country place, and now he
will be able to go to Paris and Rome and he will be great. Even the
stupid people here see how clever he is. But, oh, it will be so long
before I see him again, my love! my king!"
With each letter that comes from him, similar foolish rhapsodies are
written down, but these letters of his, I gather, as I turn the pages,
grow after a while colder and fewer, and a chill fear that dare not be
penned creeps in among the words.
"March 12th. Six weeks and no letter from Chris, and, oh dear! I am
so hungry for one, for the last I have almost kissed to pieces. I
suppose he will write more often when he gets to London. He is
working hard, I know, and it is selfish of me to expect him to write
more often, but I would sit up all night for a week rather than miss
writing to him. I suppose men are not like that. O God, help me,
help me, whatever happens! How foolish I am to-night! He was always
careless. I will punish him for it when he comes back, but not very
much."
Truly enough a conventional story.
Letters do come from him after that, but apparently they are less and
less satisfactory, for the diary grows angry and bitter, and the faded
writing is blotted at times with tears. Then towards the end of another
year there comes this entry, written in a hand of strange neatness and
precision:--
"It is all over now. I am glad it is finished. I have written to
him, giving him up. I have told him I have ceased to care for him,
and that it is better we should both be free. It is best that way. He
would have had to ask me to release him, and that would have given him
pain. He was always gentle. Now he will be able to marry her with an
easy conscience, and he need never know what I have suffered. She is
more fitted for him than I am. I hope he will be happy. I think I
have done the right thing."
A few lines follow, left blank, and then the writing is resumed, but in a
stronger, more vehement hand.
"Why do I lie to myself? I hate her! I would kill her if I could. I
hope she will make him wretched, and that he will come to hate her as
I do, and that she will die! Why did I let them persuade me to send
that lying letter? He will show it to her, and she will see through
it and laugh at me. I could have held him to his promise; he could
not have got out of it.
"What do I care about dignity, and womanliness, and right, and all the
rest of the canting words! I want him. I want his kisses and his
arms about me. He is mine! He loved me once! I have only given him
up because I thought it a fine thing to play the saint. It is only an
acted lie. I would rather be evil, and he loved me. Why do I deceive
myself? I want him. I care for nothing else at the bottom of my
heart--his love, his kisses!"
And towards the end. "My God, what am I saying? Have I no shame, no
strength? O God, help me!"
* * * * *
And there the diary closes.
I looked among the letters lying between the pages of the book. Most of
them were signed simply "Chris." or "Christopher." But one gave his name
in full, and it was a name I know well as that of a famous man, whose
hand I have often shaken. I thought of his hard-featured, handsome wife,
and of his great chill place, half house, half exhibition, in Kensington,
filled constantly with its smart, chattering set, among whom he seemed
always to be the uninvited guest; of his weary face and bitter tongue.
And thinking thus there rose up before me the sweet, sad face of the
woman of the miniature, and, meeting her eyes as she smiled at me from
out of the shadows, I looked at her my wonder.
I took the miniature from its shelf. There would be no harm now in
learning her name. So I stood with it in my hand till a little later my
landlady entered to lay the cloth.
"I tumbled this out of your book-case," I said, "in reaching down some
books. It is someone I know, someone I have met, but I cannot think
where. Do you know who it is?"
The woman took it from my hand, and a faint flush crossed her withered
face. "I had lost it," she answered. "I never thought of looking there.
It's a portrait of myself, painted years ago, by a friend."
I looked from her to the miniature, as she stood among the shadows, with
the lamplight falling on her face, and saw her perhaps for the first
time.
"How stupid of me," I answered. "Yes, I see the likeness now."