RED FLAME
"James, is it true--what she just told me?" Her voice was full of
anxiety and horror, but in some curious way she still managed to be the
self-possessed Aunt Selina of old. Even in that moment James found time
to admire her.
"Yes, Aunt Selina, I'm afraid it's true."
"Is there no hope, no chance--"
"None, that I can see."
"Then ... oh!" She gave way at that, seeming to crumple where she stood.
James helped her to a sofa and silently went into the dining room and
mixed some whisky and water. Aunt Selina stared when he offered it to
her, and then took it without a word. How like Aunt Selina again! A fool
would have raised objections. James almost smiled.
"How do you happen to be here, Aunt Selina?" he asked after a few
moments, less in the desire of knowing than in the hope of diverting
her. "You didn't come from Bar Harbor to-day?"
"From Boston."
"Boston?"
"I took the boat to Boston last night. I learned of the accident there.
I supposed she was safe--the papers said nothing."
"Yes, I know. But--but how did you happen to leave Bar Harbor at all?"
"I was going to meet her here."
"Her?"
"Beatrice."
"I don't understand."
"No, and oh, my poor boy, I've got to make you!" She said this quietly,
almost prayerfully, with the air of a person laboring under a weighty
mission. James had no reply to offer and walked off feeling curiously
uncomfortable. There was a long silence.
"Come over here and sit down, James; I want to talk to you," said Aunt
Selina at last. She spoke in her natural tone of voice; there was no
more of the priestess about her. There was that about her, however, that
made him obey.
"James, I've got to tell you a few things about Beatrice. Some things I
don't believe you know. Do you mind?"
"No," said James slowly, "I don't know that I do."
"Well, in the first place, I suppose you thought she was in love with
that Englishman?"
James nodded.
"Well, she wasn't--not one particle. Whatever else may or may not be
true, that is. She despised him."
James froze, paused as though deciding whether or not to discuss the
matter and then said gently: "I have my own ideas about that, Aunt
Selina."
She nodded briefly, almost briskly. It was the most effective reply she
could have made. The more businesslike the words the greater the
impression on James, always, in any matter. Aunt Selina understood
perfectly. She let her effect sink in and waited calmly for him to
demand proof. This he did at last, going to the very heart of the
subject.
"Then perhaps, Aunt Selina, you can account for certain things...."
"No, I shall only tell you what I know. You must do your own
accounting." She paused a moment and then went on: "You've heard nothing
since you left Bar Harbor, I suppose?"
"Nothing."
"Beatrice was quite ill for a time after you left. For days she lay in
bed unable to move, but there seemed to be nothing specific the matter
with her. We called in the doctor and he said the same old thing--rest
and fresh air. He knew considerably less what was the matter with her
than any one else in the house, which is saying a good deal.
"Lord Clairloch left the day after you did. Beatrice saw him once, that
evening, and sent him away. The next day he went, saying vaguely that he
had to go back to New York.
"James, of course I knew. I couldn't live in the house with the two
people I cared most for in the world and not see things, not _feel_
things. The only wonder is that nobody else guessed. It seemed
incredible to me, who was so keenly alive to the whole business. Time
and time again when Cecilia opened her mouth to speak to me I thought
she was going to talk about that, and then she would speak about some
unimportant subject, and I blessed her for her denseness. And how I
thanked Heaven that that sharp-nosed little minx Ruth wasn't there!
She'd have smelt the whole thing out in no time.
"Gradually Beatrice mended. Her color came back and she seemed stronger.
At last one evening--only Tuesday it was; think of it!--she came down to
dinner with a peculiar sort of glitter in her eyes. She told us that she
felt able to travel and was going to New York the next day. She had
engaged her accommodations and everything. Of course I knew what that
meant....
"Knowledge can be a terrible thing, James. For days it had preyed on me,
and now when the moment for action came I was almost too weak to
respond. Oh, how I was tempted to sit back and say nothing and let
things take their course!... But I simply couldn't fall back in the end,
I simply couldn't. After bedtime that evening I went to the door of her
room and knocked.
"I found her in the midst of packing. I told her I had something to say
to her and would wait till she was ready. She said she was listening.
"'Beatrice,' said I, 'I've always tried to mind my own business above
all things, but I'm going to break my rule now. I'm fond of you,
Beatrice; if I offend you remember that. I simply can't watch you throw
your life away without raising a finger to stop you.'
"She didn't flare up, she didn't even ask me how I knew; she only gave a
sort of groan and said: 'Oh, but Aunt Selina, I haven't any life to
throw away! It's all been burned and frozen out of me; there's nothing
left but a shell, and that won't last long! Can't you let me pass the
little that remains in peace? That's all I ask for--I gave up happiness
long ago. It won't last long! It can hurt no one!'
"'You have an immortal soul,' said I; 'you can hurt that.'
"She sat looking at the floor for a while and then said imploringly:
'Don't ask me to go back to James, Aunt Selina, for that's the one thing
I can't do.' 'I shan't ask you to do anything,' I told her, but I knew
perfectly well that I was prepared to go down on my knees before her,
when the time came....
"But it hadn't come yet--there was a great deal to be done first. What I
did was to tell her something about my own life, in the hope that it
might throw a new light on her situation. I told her things that I've
never told to a human being and never expected to tell another....
"James, I think I ought to tell you the whole thing, as I told it to
her. It may help you to understand ... certain things you must
understand. Do you mind?"
She paused, less for the purpose of obtaining his consent than in order
to gain a perfect control over her voice and manner. Taking James'
silence as acquiescence she folded her hands in her lap and went on in a
low quiet voice:
"I haven't had much of a life, according to most ways of thinking. All I
ever knew of life, as I suppose you know it, was concentrated into a few
months. Not that I didn't have a good time during my girlhood and youth.
My mother died when I was a baby, but my stepmother took as good care of
me as if I had been her own child, and I loved her almost like my own
mother. I've often thought, though, that if my mother had lived things
might have turned out differently. Stepmothers are never quite the same
thing.
"Well, I grew up and flew about with the college boys in the usual way.
I never cared a rap for any of them, beyond the bedtime raptures that
girls go through. I was able to manage them all pretty easily; I see now
that I was too attractive to them. I had a great deal of what in those
days was referred to as 'animation,' which is another way of saying that
I was an active, strong-willed, selfish little savage. I was willing to
play with the college men, but I always said that when I fell in love it
would be with a _real_ man. I laughed when I said it, but I meant it.
"Presently there came a change. Father died, and when I came out of
mourning the college men I knew best had graduated and the others seemed
too young and silly for me even to play with. It was at about this time,
when I was adjusting myself to new conditions and casting about for
something to occupy my mind that I came to know Milton Leffert."
James stirred slightly. Aunt Selina smiled.
"Yes, you've heard of him, of course. It gives one a curious feeling,
doesn't it, to learn that dead people, or people who are as good as
dead, have had their lives? I know, I know ... I think you'd have liked
Milton Leffert. He was very quiet and not at all striking in appearance,
but he was strong and there was no nonsense about him. He was more than
ten years older than I. I had known him only slightly before that time.
Then after Father's death he began coming to see me a good deal and we
fell into the habit of walking and driving together. I always liked him.
I loved talking with him; he was the first man I ever talked much with
on serious subjects. He stimulated me, and I enjoyed being with him.
Only, it never occurred to me that he could be the Real Man.
"You've often heard of women refusing men because of their poverty.
Well, the chief thing that prejudiced me against Milton Leffert was his
wealth. He happened to possess a large fortune made and left to him by
his father, and he didn't do much except take care of it, together with
that of his sister Jane. He was president of the one concern his father
had not sold out before he died, but that was the sort of thing that ran
itself; he didn't spend an hour a day at it. That wasn't much of a
career, according to the way I thought at that time, and when he first
began asking me to marry him I laughed outright.
"'You can't know me very well, Milton,' I said, 'if you suppose I could
be content with a ready-made man. I like you very much, but you're not
the husband for me.'
"'What do you mean by a ready-made man?' he asked, looking at me out of
his quiet gray eyes.
"'I should say it was sufficiently obvious,' I said. 'There's nothing
the matter with you, and I hate to hurt you, but--well, you're not
dynamic.'
"I stopped to see how he would take that. He was silent for a while,
then at last he said: 'I don't think that's a very good reason for
refusing a man.'
"I laughed; the grave way he said it was so characteristic of him. 'Oh,
Milton,' I said, 'I really think that's the only reason in the world to
make me refuse a man. I don't much believe I shall ever marry, but if I
do it will be to a man that I can help win his fight in the world;
somebody with whom I can march side by side through life, whom I alone
can help and encourage and inspire! He's got to be the kind that will
start at the bottom and work his way up to the top, and who couldn't do
it without me! That's not you, Milton. You have no fight to make--your
father made it for you. You start in at the top, the wrong end. Of
course there are still higher summits you could aim for, but you never
will, Milton. You're not that kind; you'll hold on to what you have, and
no more. I'm not blaming you; you were made that way. And there must be
a great many people like you in the world. And I _like_ you none the
less. Only I can't marry you.'
"'But I don't see what difference all this would make,' he said, 'if you
only loved me.'
"'My dear man,' said I, 'don't you see that it's only that sort of a man
who could make me love him? If you had it in you, I suppose I should
love you. You don't suppose I could love you without that, do you? I'm
afraid you don't understand me very well, Milton!'
"'I'm learning all the time,' he answered, and that was the nearest
thing to a witty or humorous remark that I ever heard him make.
"'Then again,' I went on, 'our ages are too far apart. Even if you were
the sort I mean, we shouldn't be starting even. The fight would be half
won when I came in, and that would never do. I shouldn't feel as if I
were part of your life. A marriage like that wouldn't be a marriage, it
would be a sweet little middle-aged idyll!'
"He flushed at that. 'A man can't change his age, Selina; you have no
right to taunt me with that.'
"'I didn't mean to taunt you--I only wanted to explain,' said I. 'And
the last thing in the world I want to do is to hurt you.'
"'But that's the only thing a man can't change,' he went on after a
moment, paying no attention to my apology. After another pause he added:
'I shan't give you up, mind,' and when we talked again it was of other
things.
"I went on seeing him as before, though not quite so often. Then
presently I went away on some long visits and did not see him for
several months. When I came back I noticed that his manner was more
animated than before, and that somehow he looked younger. I remember
being quite pleased.--He was thirty-four at the time, and I not quite
twenty-three.
"It was perfectly evident, even to me, that he was working to win me. I
saw it, but I did not pay any attention to it; when I thought about it
at all it was with a sort of amusement. One day he came to me apparently
very much pleased about something.
"'Congratulate me, Selina,' he said; 'I've just got my appointment.'
"'Appointment?' said I. I truthfully had no idea what he was talking
about.
"'Yes,' he went on, 'I begin work on the board next week.'
"'What board?'
"'Why, the tax board--the city tax board. Surely you knew?'
"Then I laughed--I remember it so distinctly. 'Good gracious, Milton,' I
said, 'I thought it must be the Cabinet of the United States, at the
very least!' Then I saw his face, and knew that I had hurt him.
"'It's splendid, of course,' I added. 'I do congratulate you, indeed,
most heartily. Only--only Milton, you were so serious!'
"I laughed again. He stared at me and after a moment laughed himself, a
little. I suppose that laugh was the greatest effort he had made yet. I
know I liked him better at that moment than ever before. If he had let
it go at that who knows what might have happened?
"But he changed again after a few seconds; he scowled and became more
serious than ever. 'No!' he said angrily, 'why should I laugh with you
over the most serious thing in my life? Why should you want to make me?
First you blame me for not making anything of myself, and now, when I am
trying my best to do it, you laugh at me for being serious! Of course
I'm serious about my work--I shan't pretend to be anything else.'
"Of course that was all wrong, too. Every one admires a man who can
laugh a little about his work. But I felt a sort of hopelessness in
trying to explain it to him; I was afraid he would never really
understand. So instead I drew him out on the new work he had taken up
and tried to make him talk about the plans he had in mind, of which the
tax board was only the first step. He seemed rather shy about talking of
the future.
"'It's a case for actions, not words,' he said. 'I don't want to give
you the impression that I'm only a talker. You'll see, in time, what
you've made of me,' and he smiled at me in a way that rather went to my
heart.
"'Milton,' I said, 'I'm more than glad if I can be of help to you, in
any way, but I should be deceiving you if I let you think there's any
hope--any more hope, even, than there was.'
"But that was the kind of talk he understood best. 'Selina,' he said,
'don't you bother about caring for me. The time hasn't come for that
yet. I'm not even ready for it myself--there's a lot to be done first.
The time will come, at last; I'm sure of it. A woman can't have such a
power over a man as you have over me without coming to have some feeling
for him in the end, if it's only pride in her own handiwork. But even if
it never should come, do you think I could regret what I've done, what
I'm going to do? You've made a man of me, Selina. That stands, no matter
what happens!'
"Of course that sort of thing can't help but make an impression on a
woman, and it had its effect on me. It made me a little nervous; it was
like raising a Frankenstein. I began to wonder if I should come to be
swallowed up in this new life I had unwillingly created. Once or twice I
caught myself wondering how it would feel to be the wife of Milton
Leffert....
"But about that time my stepmother began talking to me about it and
trying to persuade me to marry him, and that had the effect of making me
like the thought less. Somehow she made it seem almost like a duty, and
if there was one thing I couldn't abide it was the idea of marrying from
a sense of duty. Then other things came into my life and for a time I
ceased to think of him almost entirely.
"We went abroad for several months, my stepmother and the two boys and
I. Hilary had been seriously ill, and we thought the change would do him
good. And as he had a good deal of study to make up--he was fourteen at
the time--my stepmother engaged a young man to go with us and tutor him
and be a companion to the boys generally.
"You might almost guess the rest. I saw my stepmother wince when he met
us at the steamer--we had engaged him by letter and had no idea what he
looked like. I suppose it had never occurred to her before that there
might be danger in placing me in daily companionship with a man of
about my own age. It certainly occurred to her then.
"James, I know I can't make it sound plausible to you, but even now I
don't wonder I fell in love with him. I don't suppose a more attractive
man was ever born. He was thin and brown and had a pure aquiline
profile--but it's no use describing him. Think of the most attractive
person you ever knew and make him ten times more so and perhaps you'll
get some idea.
"He was quite poor--that also took my fancy. He was trying to earn money
enough to put himself through law school. Those who knew him said he was
a brilliant student and that a great career lay before him, and I
believed it. He certainly was as bright and keen as they make 'em, and
very witty and amusing. Occasionally Harry reminds me of him, and that
makes me worry about Harry.... Of course I was tremendously taken with
his mental qualities, and I had all sorts of romantic notions about
helping him to make a great place for himself in the world, and all the
rest of it. But as a matter of fact what drew me to him chiefly was
simple animal attraction. It wasn't wrong and it wasn't unnatural,
but--well, it was unfortunate.
"Even my stepmother felt it. I don't know how long it was before she
knew what was going on, but she never made any effort to stop it. Like a
sensible woman she kept her mouth shut and determined to let things take
their course. But she never talked to me any more about Milton Leffert,
and as a matter of fact I know she would have been perfectly willing
that I should marry Adrian. Yes, that was his first name. I shan't tell
you his last, because he's still alive.
"I remember telling myself when I first saw him that such an absurdly
handsome person could not have much to him, but he appeared better and
better as time went on. He was thoughtful and tactful and knew how to
efface himself. He was splendid with the boys; Hilary in particular took
a tremendous fancy to him and would do anything he said. He was the
greatest influence in Hilary's life up to that time, and I really think
the best. He was an extraordinary person. By the end of the first month
I suspected he was the Real Man. By the end of the second I was
convinced of it, and by the end of the third I would willingly have
placed my head under his foot any time he gave the word. By the end of
the sixth month I wouldn't have touched him with my foot--I'm sure of
it. But there never was any sixth month.
"In the month of June we were on the Lake of Como. There happened to be
a full moon. Como in the moonlight is not the safest place in the world
for young people, under any circumstances. In our case it was sure to
lead to something.
"We had strolled up to a terrace high above the lake and stood for a
long time leaning over the balustrade drinking in the beauty of the
scene. For a long time we said nothing, and apparently the same thought
struck us both--that it was all too beautiful to be true. At any rate
after a time Adrian sighed and said: 'Oh, this damnable moonlight!'
"'Why?'I asked.
"'Because it makes everything seem so unreal--the lake, the mountains,
the nightingales, everything. It's like a poem by Lamartine. But I don't
mind that--I like Lamartine. The trouble is it makes you seem unreal
too. Oh, I know that you're where you are and are flesh and blood and
that if I pinched you you'd probably scream and all that--'
"'No, I shouldn't,' said I. 'I wouldn't be real if I did.'
"He sighed. 'That shows it,' he said; 'that proves exactly what I say.
You're not really living this; your soul isn't really here. I'm not
really in your life. I'm just a pretty little episode, a stage property,
a part of the lake and the moonlight, a part of every summer vacation!'
"'If you're not really in my life,' said I, 'doesn't it occur to you
that it's because of your unreality, not mine?'
"'You admit that I'm not real to you, then?'
"'No,' said I, 'but it would be your own fault if you weren't.'
"'What about that man in New Haven, is he real?' he asked suddenly. I
only flushed, and he went on: 'That's it--he's the real man in your
life. You're willing to play about with me in the summertime, but when
the winter comes you'll go straight back and marry him. I'm all right
for the moonlight, but you want him in the cold gray light of the dawn!
He's the Old and New Testaments to you, and I'm only--a poem by
Lamartine! And with me--oh, Lord!' He buried his face in his hands.
"I don't know whether it was pure accident or whether he somehow
guessed part of the truth. At any rate it roused me. I was very sure
that what he said was not true, or at least I was very anxious that it
should not be true, which often comes to the same thing. I argued with
him for some time, and when words failed there were other things. But he
did not seem entirely convinced.
"After a while, as we sat there, Hilary appeared with a telegram that
had just arrived for me. I saw that it was a cable message and thought
it was probably from Milton Leffert, as he had said that he might
possibly come abroad on business during the summer and would look me up
if he did. And somehow the thought of Milton Leffert at that moment
filled me with the most intense disgust....
"'Now,' I said when Hilary had gone, 'I'm tired of arguing; here may be
a chance to prove myself by actions. Open this telegram, and tell me if
it's from Milton Leffert!'
"He looked at me in a dazed sort of way. 'Open it!' I repeated, stamping
my foot. I was drunk with love and moonlight and I imagine I must have
acted like a fury. I know I felt like one.
"He opened the telegram and read it, gravely and silently.
"'Is it or is it not from Milton Leffert?'
"'Yes. He--'
"'That's all I want to know--don't say another word! Do you hear? Never
tell me another word about that telegram as long as you live! And now
destroy it--here--before my eyes! I'm going to put Milton Leffert out of
my life forever, here and now! Go on, destroy it!'
"Adrian hesitated. He seemed almost frightened. 'But--' he began.
"'Adrian!' I turned toward him with the moonlight beating full down on
me. I was not so bad-looking in those days; I daresay I was not
bad-looking at all as I stood there in the moonlight. At least I know
that woman never used her beauty more consciously than I did in that
moment.
"'Adrian, look at me! Do you love me?'
"He allowed that he did.
"'Then do what I say. Destroy that telegram and never mention it or that
man's name to me again!'
"A change came over him. He hesitated no longer; he became forceful and
determined.
"'Very well,' he cried, 'if you're not mine now you will be! Here's
good-by to Milton Leffert!'
"He took some matches from his pocket and lit the end of the paper. When
it was burning brightly he dropped it over the edge of the terrace and
it floated out into the space beneath. We stood together and watched it
as it fell, burning red in the moonlight....
"Then for some weeks we were happy. Adrian seemed particularly so; he
had had his gloomy moods before that but now they passed away entirely.
And if there was a cloud of suspicion that I had done wrong in my own
mind I was so happy in seeing Adrian's joy that I paid no attention to
it.
"Only one thing struck me as odd; he would not let me tell my
stepmother. He gave a number of reasons for it; it would make his
position with us uncomfortable; he could not be a tutor and a lover at
the same time; he was writing to his relatives and wanted to wait till
they knew; we must wait till we were absolutely sure of ourselves, and
so forth. One of these reasons might have convinced me, but his giving
so many of them made me suspect, even as I obeyed him, that none of them
was the real one. I wondered what it could be. I found out, soon enough.
"We left Italy and worked slowly northward. Several weeks after the
scene on the terrace we reached Paris. There we met a number of our
American friends, some of whom had just arrived from home. One day my
stepmother and I were sitting talking with one of these--Elizabeth
Haldane it was--and in the course of the conversation she happened to
say: 'Very sad, isn't it, about poor Milton Leffert?'
"'What is sad?' asked my stepmother.
"'Why, haven't you heard?' said Elizabeth. 'He died a short time before
we left. Brain fever or something of the sort--from overwork, they said.
He was planning to run for the State Legislature this fall.' I saw her
glancing round; she couldn't keep her eyes off me. But I sat still as a
stone....
"As soon as I could I took Adrian off alone.
"'Adrian,' I said, 'the time has come when you've got to tell me what
was in that telegram.'
"'Never,' said he, smiling. 'I promised, you know,'
"'I release you from your promise.'
"'Even so, I can't tell you.'
"'Adrian,' said I, looking him full in the face, 'Milton Leffert is
dead.'
"'I'm sorry to hear it,' said he.
"I blazed up at that. 'Stop lying to me,' I cried, 'and tell me what was
in that telegram!'
"He confessed at last that it was from Jane Leffert saying that her
brother was dangerously ill and asking me to come to him if possible or
at least send some message. I knew well enough what it must have been,
but I wanted to wring it from his lips....
"'Well, have you nothing to say to me?' he asked.
"I didn't answer for some time--I couldn't. To tell the truth I hadn't
been thinking of him. At last I turned on him. 'You contemptible
creature,' I managed to say.
"'Why?' he whined. 'You've no right to call me names. You made me do it.
If you're sorry now it's your own fault.'
"'I was to blame,' I answered. 'Heaven forbid that I should try to
excuse my own fault. But do you think that lets you out? Suppose the
positions had been reversed; suppose you had been ill and Milton with
me. Do you imagine he would have let me remain in ignorance while you
lay dying and in need of me, no matter what I told him to do or not to
do? Are you so weak and mean that you can't conceive of any one being
strong and good?'
"'It was because I loved you so much that I did it,' he said.
"'Oh, Adrian,' I told him, 'if you really loved me, why did you let me
do a thing you knew I'd live to regret? If you really loved me, what had
you to fear but that?'
"'You might have saved his life,' he answered.
"Oh, James, the anguish of hearing those words from his lips! The man I
did not love telling me I might have saved the life of the man I did!
For now that it was too late I knew well enough who it was that I loved.
In one flash I saw the two men as they were, one strong, quiet,
unselfish, the other selfish, cowardly, mean-spirited. Now I saw why he
had not wanted me to tell my stepmother of our engagement. He wanted to
cover up his own part in the affair in case anything unpleasant happened
when I heard of Milton's death.
"I told my stepmother everything as soon as I could and she behaved
splendidly. She sent Adrian away and I never saw him again. And as I
announced my intention of going home on the next steamer she decided it
was best to give up the rest of her trip and take the boys along back
with me. So we all went, that same week.
"People wondered, when we arrived so long ahead of time, and came pretty
near to guessing the whole truth. But I didn't care. The one thing I
wanted in the world was to see Milton's sister, his one surviving
relative.
"'Jane Leffert,' I wrote her, 'if you can bear to look on the woman who
killed your brother, let her come and tell you she's sorry.' She was a
good woman and understood. The next day I went to her house. She took me
upstairs and showed me his room, the bed where he had died. I never said
a word all the time. Then, as she was really a very remarkable woman,
she handed me an old brooch of her mother's containing a miniature of
him painted when he was four years old, and told me it was mine to keep.
Then for the first time I broke down and cried....
"If it hadn't been for Jane Leffert I think I should have gone mad. She
never tried to hide the truth from me. She admitted, when I asked her,
that Milton had, to all intents and purposes, worked himself to death
for me, and that the doctor had said the one hope for him lay in his
seeing me or hearing I was coming to him. But never a word of blame or
reproach did she give me, never a hint of a feeling of it. She knew how
easy it is to make mistakes in life, she knew how hard it is to atone
for them. She it was who gave me the blessed thought that it was worth
while to go on living as part of my atonement, and that if I put into my
life the things I had learned from him I might even, to a certain
extent, make Milton live on in me.
"So instead of taking poison or becoming a Carmelite nun I went on
living at home as before, stimulated and inspired by that idea. It was
hard at first, but somehow the harder things were the greater the
satisfaction I took in life. By the time I had lightened the remaining
years of my stepmother's life and nursed Jane Leffert through her last
illness I became content with my lot and, in a way, happy. I never asked
for happiness nor wanted it again on earth, but it came, at last. There
is something purifying about loving a dead person very much. The chief
danger is in its making one morbid, but as I was always a thoroughly
practical person with a strong natural taste for life it did me nothing
but good. But I don't prescribe it for any one who can get anything
better....
"One thing in particular helped me to keep my mind on earth and remind
me of the far-reaching effects of wrong-doing. I have said that Hilary,
your father, was extremely fond of Adrian. Well, somehow he got the idea
into his head that I had thrown him over because of his poverty, and he
never forgave me for it. Till his dying day he believed that I really
loved Adrian most but was afraid to marry him. Over and over again I
told him the truth, taking a sort of fierce pleasure in being able to
tell any one that I had never loved any one but Milton Leffert.
"'Then why did you let Adrian make love to you?' Hilary would answer,
'and why did you make him burn that telegram? I know, I heard you as I
walked down the path.' Nothing I could say ever made him understand. And
the hardest part of it was that I couldn't exactly blame him for not
being convinced.
"Taking him at that impressionable time of life the thing had a
tremendous effect on him. The idea grew into him that no human feeling
could stand the test of hard facts; that that was the way love worked
out in real life. From that time on his mind steadily developed and his
soul steadily dwindled. He became practical, brilliant, worldly wise,
heartless. We grew gradually more and more estranged; you seldom heard
him mention my name, I suppose? That's why you never heard before what
I've been telling you, or at least the whole truth of it.... And so, as
he consciously modeled certain of his mannerisms after those of Adrian
he unconsciously grew more and more like him in character; and I had the
satisfaction of watching the change and realizing that it was due, in
part at least, to me. And the thought of how I unwillingly hurt him has
made me all the more anxious to make reparation by being of service to
his two boys. Perhaps you can imagine some of the things I've feared for
them...."
* * * * *
Here Aunt Selina broke off, choked by a sudden gust of emotion. James
said nothing, but sat staring straight in front of him. Presently his
aunt, steadying her voice to its accustomed pitch, went on:
"Well, James, I told this to Beatrice, much as I've told it to you,
though not at so great length, and I could see it made an impression on
her. She came over and sat down by me and took my hand without speaking.
"'You lived through all that?' she said at last, 'and you never told any
one?'
"'Why should I have told?' I answered. 'There was no one to tell. I've
only told you because I thought it might have some bearing on your own
case.'
"She caught her breath, gave a sort of little sigh. And that sigh said,
as plainly as words, 'Dear me, I was so interested in your story I
almost forgot I must get ready to go to New York to-morrow.' It was a
setback; I saw I had overestimated the effect I had made. But I set my
teeth and went on, determined not to give her up yet.
"'Beatrice,' I said, 'I haven't told you all this for the pleasure of
telling it nor to amuse you. I've told it to you because I wanted to
show you how such a course of action as you're about to take works out
in real life. There is a strange madness that comes over women
sometimes, especially over strong women; a sort of obsession that makes
them think they are too good for the men they love. I know it, I've felt
it--I've suffered under it, if ever woman did! It may seem irresistible
while it lasts, but oh, the remorse that comes afterward! Beatrice, how
many times do you suppose I've lived over each snubbing speech I made to
Milton Leffert? How often do you suppose my laugh at him when he told me
about the tax board has rung through my ears? Those are the memories
that stab the soul, Beatrice; don't let there be any such in your life!'
"She didn't answer, but sat staring at the floor.
"'Beatrice,' I went on, 'there's no mortal suffering like discovering
you've done wrong when it's too late. It's the curse of strong-willed
people. It all seems so simple to us at first; it's so easy for us to
force our wills on other people, to rule others and be free ourselves.
Then something happens, the true vision comes, and it's too late!
Beatrice, I've caught you in time--it's not too late for you yet. Do you
know where you stand now, Beatrice? You're at the point where I was when
I told Adrian to burn that telegram!'
"Still she said nothing, and the sight of her sitting there so beautiful
and cold drove me almost wild. 'Oh, Beatrice,' I burst out, losing the
last bit of my self-control, 'don't tell me I've got to live through it
all again with you! Don't go and repeat my mistake before my very eyes,
with my example before yours! It was hard enough to live through it once
myself, but what will it be when I sit helplessly by and watch the
people I love best go through it all! I can't bear it, I can't, I can't!
It takes all the meaning out of my own life!...'
"She was moved by my display of feeling, but not by my words. She said
nothing for a time, but took my hand again and began stroking it gently,
as if to quiet me. I said nothing more--I couldn't speak. At last she
said, in a calm, gentle tone of voice, as if she were explaining
something to a child:--
"'Aunt Selina, I don't think you quite understand about my marriage with
James. It isn't like other marriages, exactly.'
"'It seems to me enough that it is a marriage,' I answered. 'Though I
haven't spoken of that side of it, of course.'
"'Oh, you won't understand!' she said.
"'Beatrice,' said I, 'I couldn't understand if you kept telling me about
it till to-morrow morning. No one ever will understand you, except your
Creator--you might as well make up your mind to it. I don't doubt you've
had many wrong things done to you. The point is, you're about to do one.
Don't do it.'
"Always back to the same old point, and nothing gained! I had the
feeling of having fired my last shot and missed. I shut my eyes and
leaned my head back and tried to think of some new way of putting it to
her, but as a matter of fact I knew I had said all I had to say. And
then, just as I was giving her up for lost, I heard her speaking again.
"'Aunt Selina,' she said, 'you have made me think of one thing.'
"'What's that, my dear?' I asked.
"'Well, I don't doubt but what I have done wrong things already, without
suspecting it. Oh, yes, I've been too sure of myself!'
"'It's possible, my dear,' said I, 'but you haven't done anything that
you can't still make up for, if you want.'
"'I think I know what you mean,' she said slowly; 'you mean I could go
and tell him so. Tell him I had done wrong and was sorry--for I did sin,
not in deed, but still in thought.... I never told him that, of
course....' Then she shivered. 'Oh, but Aunt Selina, I can't do it, I
can't! If you only knew how I've tried already, how I've humiliated
myself!'
"'That never did any one any harm,' I told her.
"'And then,' she went on, 'even if I did do it, he'd never take me
back--not on any terms! He'd only cast me away again--that's what would
happen, you know! What would there be for me then but--Tommy?'
"Well, I knew I'd won a great point in making her even consider it.
"'Several things,' I answered, taking no pains to conceal my delight.
'In the first place, it's by no means certain that he will refuse you.
But if he does--well, you'll never lack a home or a friend while I'm
alive, my dear! And don't you go and pretend that I'm not more to you
than that brainless, chinless, sniveling, driveling little fool of an
Englishman, for I won't believe it!'
"She laughed at that and for a moment we both laughed together. Then it
suddenly occurred to me that I couldn't do better than leave it at that,
let that laugh end our talk.
"'Good night, my dear,' I said, kissing her. 'The time has come now when
you've got to make up your mind for yourself. I've done all I can for
you.' And with that I left her.
"But, oh, James, it wasn't as simple as all that! It was all very well
to tell her that and go to bed, but if you knew what agonies of doubt
and suspense I went through during the night, fearing, hoping,
wondering, praying! Those things are so much more complicated in real
life than they are when you read them or see them acted. What should
have happened was that I should have one grand scene with her and make
her promise at the end to do as I wanted. And I did my best, I went as
far as it was in me to go, and knew no more of the result than before I
began! And we parted laughing--laughing, from that talk!
"But almost the worst part of it was next morning when we met downstairs
after breakfast, with the family about. I could scarcely say good
morning to her, and I never dared catch her eye. And all the time that
one great subject was burning in our minds. And we couldn't talk of it
again, either; we couldn't have if we'd been alone together in a desert!
You can't go on having scenes with people.
"At last, after lunch, I was alone on the verandah with her, and managed
to screw myself up to asking her whether she was going to New York or
not.
"'Yes, I'm going,' she answered.
"'What do you mean by that?' I asked.
"'Oh, I don't know what I mean!' she said desperately. I knew she was as
badly off as I was, or worse, and after that I simply couldn't say
another word to her.
"But I saw her alone once again, just before she started. She kissed me
good-by and smiled and whispered: 'Don't worry, Aunt Selina--it's all
right,' and then the others came. Just that--nothing more!
"I didn't know what to think--what I dared to think. One moment I rushed
and telegraphed you, because I was afraid she was going to the
Englishman, after all. The next minute I was hurrying to catch the night
boat to Boston, because I thought she was going to you and that I might
have to deal with you. I wanted to be with her in any case. Oh, I was so
mad with the uncertainty and suspense I didn't know what I did or what I
thought! But the impression I took away finally from her last words to
me were that she was going to you.... But I never knew, James, _I never
knew_! And now I never shall!..."