"I thank you," Usselex returned. "I can understand that enough has
occurred to shake your confidence. In the circumstances, it is good of
you to be willing to receive my unsupported word. But bear with me a
moment. You will see, I think, that I have done no wrong."
As he spoke she had but one thought, to repossess herself of the note.
Could she but get it and tear it and set it aflame, out of the cinders
life might re-arise.
"You may remember," he continued, "what I said of myself, 'things have
not always been pleasant with me.' You knew as a child what it is to
lose a mother, but think what it must be to have a mother and have that
mother ignore your existence. Such a thing is hard, is it not? But of
her I will not speak; she is dead, poor woman; I hope she never suffered
as have I. The people by whom I was brought up I looked upon as my
parents. They had been paid to adopt me. When I discovered that, I was
old enough to make my own living. With that view I came to this country.
New York was different then. I should not care to land here now and
attempt to make a fortune without a penny to start with. But it is
true, I was young. I was a fair linguist, a rarity in those days, and it
was not long before I found a situation. When I had a little money put
by, I learned of an opening in Boston, and started in business there for
myself. Shortly after I became acquainted with a girl. She was very
beautiful; more so, I thought, than anyone I had ever seen. So soon as I
was in a position to marry she became my wife. We lived together for
three years. During that time I thought her affection as unwavering as
my own. She was an excellent musician, and much sought after, not alone
because of her talent, but because of her beauty as well. The
entertainments which she frequented I was often unable to attend. But I
was glad to have her go without me. I was proud of the admiration which
she aroused. One evening she left me, and did not return. For some time
her disappearance was unexplained. Ultimately I discovered that she was
in New York. She had deserted me for another man. I followed her and
obtained a divorce. Afterwards the man deserted her as she had deserted
me. Then she went abroad. Of her life there I can only judge by hearsay.
I believe that at one time she figured in an opera troupe. Now and then
she wrote, asking for money; but latterly she has ceased. It is a
surprise to me that she calls herself by my name. Perhaps she has done
so because she heard that I had prospered. The reflection of that
prosperity may have been of advantage to her. That, however, can easily
be stopped. But I am sorry, Eden, that you should have learned of it.
Even the children do not know; they think her dead. When she deserted
me, I left them with their grand-parents. In so doing I sought to
separate myself from everything connected with her, and I stipulated
that I would provide for their maintenance on condition that they were
kept in ignorance of their mother's existence and of mine. Some years
ago, however, first the grandfather, then the grandmother, died. I was
obliged to appear more prominently. My daughter had married; I took her
husband into my employ. It was of him I spoke the other day."
He hesitated and paused, his eyes fixed in hers. The phrases had come
from him haltingly, one by one, but each he had dowered with an accent
that carried conviction with it. With the note which he held in his
hand, he still toyed abstractedly.
"You understand now, do you not?" he asked. "You understand and
forgive?"
And Eden, as one who has weathered a storm and sees shipwreck imminent
in port bowed her head. "It is truth," she told herself. "If he reads
that note, he will kill me."
"You understand now, do you not?" he repeated. His voice was sonorous
and caressing as an anthem, and he bent nearer that he might see her
face.
"Too late!" she answered.
"No, Eden, not that. Look at me. You must not hide your eyes. In all the
world there are none as fair as they. Look at me, Eden. Tell me that you
forgive. I have pained you, I know; I have been stupid; but the pain has
been unwitting and the stupidity born of love. Look at me, Eden. See,"
he continued, and bent at her side, "See, I ask forgiveness on my
knees. Can you not give it me?"
"To you, yes, but never to myself." She spoke hoarsely, in a voice
unlike her own; her eyes were not in his, they were staring at something
in his hand, and as she stared, she seemed to shrink. The muscles of her
face were rigid. And Usselex, perplexed at the fixidity of her gaze,
followed the direction which her eyes had taken and saw that they rested
on the note which he still held, crumpled and forgotten. For a second he
looked at it wonderingly, "Why, it is from you," he exclaimed.
In that second, Eden, with the prescience that is said to visit those
that drown, went forward and back, into the past and into the future as
well. Amid her scattered yesterdays she groped for a promise. Of the
unanswering morrows she called for release, and as her husband stood up,
preparing to read what she had written, she felt herself the depository
of shame.
The next instant she was at his side. "Give it me," she murmured. Her
voice trembled a little, but she strove to render it assured. "Give it
me," she pleaded.
Usselex turned to her at once. "Certainly, if you wish it," he said.
"What is it about?"
He held the note to her, and she, with an affected air of indifference,
took it from him and tossed it into the grate.
"Nothing," she answered, and then, as though ashamed of the falsehood,
she looked him bravely in the face. "It was about your clerk."
"Adrian?" he asked. And as she nodded, tremulous still and unprepared
for further questions, he added, "I hope you like him."
"You hope I like him?"
"Yes, he is my son."
Eden's hands went to her throat and her eyes to the grate. The note was
already in a blaze.
"Yes," Usselex continued, "I have a bit of news for you. He is engaged
to Miss Bolton. For a long time her parents objected, but last night
they consented. It may be because he was at the opera with you. How
small people can be!" he added. "She is a nice girl, though. Adrian
told me this morning that he tried to speak to you about her the night I
dined with Governor Blanchford, but that you did not seem interested."
"God in Heaven!" gasped Eden, beneath her breath. "If these are your
punishments, what then are your rewards?"
Usselex had led her to a seat and taken her unresisting hand in his. For
some little time he talked to her, very gently, as it behooves the
strong to address the weak. And as he spoke, Mr. Menemon entered, and
seeing them hand-locked and side-by-side, he smiled cheerily to himself
with the air of a man who learns that all is well.
Usselex stood up at once, but for a little space Eden sat very still,
surprised as February at a violet, then rising, she went forward to the
window and looked out at the night. From the square beyond came the beat
of drums, and on the breeze was borne to her the shrill treble of
retreating fifes. And as she loitered at the window, conscious only of a
sense of happiness such as she had never known before, her father called
to her. She turned at his bidding. In the opposite doorway a servant
stood.
"Dinner is served," he said.
And presently Mr. Menemon, as was his custom, mumbled a grace and
thanksgiving to God.