Two days later, Ralph again knocked on Bertha's door. He looked paler
than usual, almost haggard; his immaculate linen was a little crumpled,
and he carried no cane; his lips were tightly compressed, and his face
wore an air of desperate resolution.
"It is done," he said, as he seated himself opposite her. "I am going."
"Going!" cried she, startled at his unusual appearance. "How, where?"
"To America. I sail to-night. I have followed your advice, you see. I
have cut off the last bridge behind me."
"But, Ralph," she exclaimed, in a voice of alarm. "Something dreadful
must have happened. Tell me quick; I must know it."
"No; nothing dreadful," muttered he, smiling bitterly. "I have made a
little scandal, that is all. My father told me to-day to go to the
devil, if I chose, and my mother gave me five hundred dollars to help
me along on the way. If you wish to know, here is the explanation."
And he pulled from his pocket six perfumed and carefully folded notes,
and threw them into her lap.
"Do you wish me to read them?" she asked, with growing surprise.
"Certainly. Why not?"
She hastily opened one note after the other, and read.
"But, Ralph," she cried, springing up from her seat, while her eyes
flamed with indignation, "what does this mean? What have you done?"
"I didn't think it needed any explanation," replied he, with feigned
indifference. "I proposed to them all, and, you see, they all accepted
me. I received all these letters to-day. I only wished to know whether
the whole world regarded me as such a worthless scamp as you told me I
was."
She did not answer, but sat mutely staring at him, fiercely crumpling a
rose-colored note in her hand. He began to feel uncomfortable under
her gaze, and threw himself about uneasily in his chair.
"Well," said he, at length, rising, "I suppose there is nothing more.
Good-by."
"One moment, Mr. Grim," demanded she, sternly. "Since I have already
said so much, and you have obligingly revealed to me a new side of your
character, I claim the right to correct the opinion I expressed of you
at our last meeting."
"I am all attention."
"I did think, Mr. Grim," began she, breathing hard, and steadying
herself against the table at which she stood, "that you were a very
selfish man--an embodiment of selfishness, absolute and supreme, but I
did not believe that you were wicked."
"And what convinced you that I was selfish, if I may ask?"
"What convinced me?" repeated she, in a tone of inexpressible contempt.
"When did you ever act from any generous regard for others? What good
did you ever do to anybody?"
"You might ask, with equal justice, what good I ever did to myself."
"In a certain sense, yes; because to gratify a mere momentary wish is
hardly doing one's self good."
"Then I have, at all events, followed the Biblical precept, and treated
my neighbor very much as I treat myself."
"I did think," continued Bertha, without heeding the remark, "that you
were, at bottom kind-hearted, but too hopelessly well-bred ever to
commit an act of any decided complexion, either good or bad. Now I see
that I have misjudged you, and that you are capable of outraging the
most sacred feelings of a woman's heart in mere wantonness, or for the
sake of satisfying a base curiosity, which never could have entered the
mind of an upright and generous man."
The hard, benumbed look in Ralph's face thawed in the warmth of her
presence, and her words, though stern, touched a secret spring in his
heart. He made two or three vain attempts to speak, then suddenly broke
down, and cried:
"Bertha, Bertha, even if you scorn me, have patience with me, and
listen."
And he told her, in rapid, broken sentences, how his love for her had
grown from day to day, until he could no longer master it; and how, in
an unguarded moment, when his pride rose in fierce conflict against his
love, he had done this reckless deed of which he was now heartily
ashamed. The fervor of his words touched her, for she felt that they
were sincere. Large mute tears trembled in her eyelashes as she sat
gazing tenderly at him, and in the depth of her soul the wish awoke
that she might have been able to return this great and strong love of
his; for she felt that in this love lay the germ of a new, of a
stronger and better man. She noticed, with a half-regretful pleasure,
his handsome figure, his delicately shaped hands, and the noble cast of
his features; an overwhelming pity for him rose within her, and she
began to reproach herself for having spoken so harshly, and, as she now
thought, so unjustly. Perhaps he read in her eyes the unspoken wish. He
seized her hand, and his words fell with a warm and alluring cadence
upon her ear.
"I shall not see you for a long time to come, Bertha," said he, "but if
at the end of five or six years your hand is still free, and I return
another man--a man to whom you could safely intrust your
happiness--would you then listen to what I may have to say to you? For
I promise, by all that we both hold sacred--"
"No, no," interrupted she, hastily. "Promise nothing. It would be
unjust to yourself, and perhaps also to me; for a sacred promise is a
terrible thing, Ralph. Let us both remain free; and, if you return and
still love me, then come, and I shall receive you and listen to you.
And even if you have outgrown your love, which is, indeed, more
probable, come still to visit me wherever I may be, and we shall meet
as friends and rejoice in the meeting."
"You know best," he murmured. "Let it be as you have said."
He arose, took her face between his hands, gazed long and tenderly into
her eyes, pressed a kiss upon her forehead, and hastened away.
That night Ralph boarded the steamer for Hull, and three weeks later
landed in New York.