"I give you back your freedom. The only gift of mine that can
please you now.
"ARTHUR."
I held the sheet out to Miss Helmont, and, when she had glanced at it, I
sealed, stamped, and addressed it.
"Good-bye," I said then, and gave her the letter. As the door closed
behind her I sank into my chair, and I am not ashamed to say that I
cried like a child or a fool over my lost plaything--the little
dark-haired woman who loved some one else with "body, soul, and
spirit."
I did not hear the door open or any foot on the floor, and therefore I
started when a voice behind me said--
"Are you so very unhappy? Oh, Arthur, don't think I am not sorry for
you!"
"I don't want any one to be sorry for me, Miss Helmont," I said.
She was silent a moment. Then, with a quick, sudden, gentle movement she
leaned down and kissed my forehead--and I heard the door softly close.
Then I knew that the beautiful Miss Helmont loved me.
At first that thought only fleeted by--a light cloud against a grey
sky--but the next day reason woke, and said--
"Was Miss Helmont speaking the truth? Was it possible that----?"
I determined to see Elvire, to know from her own lips whether by happy
fortune this blow came, not from her, but from a woman in whom love
might have killed honesty.
I walked from Hampstead to Gower Street. As I trod its long length, I
saw a figure in pink come out of one of the houses. It was Elvire. She
walked in front of me to the corner of Store Street. There she met Oscar
Helmont. They turned and met me face to face, and I saw all I needed to
see. They loved each other. Ida Helmont had spoken the truth. I bowed
and passed on. Before six months were gone they were married, and before
a year was over I had married Ida Helmont.
What did it I don't know. Whether it was remorse for having, even for
half a day, dreamed that she could be so base as to forge a lie to gain
a lover, or whether it was her beauty, or the sweet flattery of the
preference of a woman who had half her acquaintances at her feet, I
don't know; anyhow, my thoughts turned to her as to their natural home.
My heart, too, took that road, and before very long I loved her as I had
never loved Elvire. Let no one doubt that I loved her--as I shall never
love again, please God!
There never was any one like her. She was brave and beautiful, witty and
wise, and beyond all measure adorable. She was the only woman in the
world. There was a frankness--a largeness of heart--about her that made
all other women seem small and contemptible. She loved me and I
worshipped her. I married her, I stayed with her for three golden weeks,
and then I left her. Why?
Because she told me the truth. It was one night--late--we had sat all
the evening in the verandah of our seaside lodging watching the
moonlight on the water and listening to the soft sound of the sea on the
sand. I have never been so happy; I never shall be happy any more, I
hope.
"Heart's heart," she said, leaning her gold head against my shoulder,
"how much do you love me?"
"How much?"
"Yes--how much? I want to know what place it is I hold in your heart. Am
I more to you than any one else?"
"My love!"
"More than yourself?"
"More than my life!"
"I believe you," she said. Then she drew a long breath, and took my
hands in hers. "It can make no difference. Nothing in heaven or earth
can come between us now."
"Nothing," I said. "But, sweet, my wife, what is it?"
For she was deathly pale.
"I must tell you," she said; "I cannot hide anything now from you,
because I am yours--body, soul, and spirit."
The phrase was an echo that stung me.
The moonlight shone on her gold hair, her warm, soft, gold hair, and on
her pale face.
"Arthur," she said, "you remember my coming to you at Hampstead with
that letter?"
"Yes, my sweet, and I remember how you----"
"Arthur!"--she spoke fast and low--"Arthur, that letter was a forgery.
She never wrote it. I----"
She stopped, for I had risen and flung her hands from me, and stood
looking at her. God help me! I thought it was anger at the lie I felt. I
know now it was only wounded vanity that smarted in me. That _I_ should
have been tricked, that _I_ should have been deceived, that _I_ should
have been led on to make a fool of myself! That _I_ should have married
the woman who had befooled me! At that moment she was no longer the wife
I adored--she was only a woman who had forged a letter and tricked me
into marrying her.
I spoke; I denounced her; I said I would never speak to her again. I
felt it was rather creditable in me to be so angry. I said I would have
no more to do with a liar and forger.
I don't know whether I expected her to creep to my knees and implore
forgiveness. I think I had some vague idea that I could by-and-by
consent with dignity to forgive and forget. I did not mean what I said.
No, no; I did not mean a word of it. While I was saying it I was longing
for her to weep and fall at my feet, that I might raise her and hold her
in my arms again.
But she did not fall at my feet; she stood quietly looking at me.
"Arthur," she said, as I paused for breath, "let me explain--she--I----"
"There is nothing to explain," I said hotly, still with that foolish
sense of there being something rather noble in my indignation, as one
feels when one calls one's self a miserable sinner. "You are a liar and
forger, and that is enough for me. I will never speak to you again. You
have wrecked my life----"
"Do you mean that?" she said, interrupting me, and leaning forward to
look at me. Tears lay on her cheeks, but she was not crying now.
I hesitated. I longed to take her in my arms and say--"Lay your head
here, my darling, and cry here, and know how I love you."
But instead I kept silence.
"_Do_ you mean it?" she persisted.
Then she put her hand on my arm. I longed to clasp it and draw her to
me.