He writes:
"Helen:"--then sits staring at the word. "I dare not come to you until
you send for me. I throw myself at your feet, and implore you to forgive
me. So miserable a man as I does not live. Helen, child, wife of my
heart, who has known the good of my life as well as the bad, come back
to me. My life from this hour shall attest my love for you, my sorrow
and repentance. Helen, by the memories of those first years, when we
lived but one for the other, I implore you. We will go away together. I
forswear this life forever. I have wealth. My last penny shall be used
for your happiness. The world is all before us. Command, and your least
wish shall be fulfilled. My sin is great, my punishment is more than I
can bear. Come back, sweet wife, and help me by your presence, your word
of approval, to right my terrible wrong if I can. Oh, Helen, the memory
of those days filled with your love and goodness crowd upon me, making
my despair more hopeless; making my loneliness grimmer. That which you
have longed for shall be yours. No more of this hurry and striving! No
more of this frenzied living! Come back, Helen, wife, come back--"
The pen slips from his fingers. The paper is all blotted with his tears.
He rings the bell, and hands the message through the door. It is gone.
And now he waits.
He goes to the seat by the dead fire. He waits with Helen's neglected
things in his hands--with Helen's dog at his feet.
An hour goes by, and still he waits--a little longer, and a note is
handed through the door.
His note--unopened.