SO LONG
When Peter stepped into his sister's room he had forgotten that his
eyes were open.
"Beatrice," he said, "we must start back for New York as soon as
possible."
She sprang from her chair. Pale and without his shade, he was like an
apparition.
"Peter!" she cried.
"What's the trouble?"
"Your eyes!"
"They came back this morning."
"Then I was right! Marjory--Marjory worked the miracle!"
He smiled a little.
"Yes."
"It's wonderful. But, Peter--"
"Well?"
"You look so strange--so pale!"
"It's been--well, rather an exciting experience."
She put her arms about his neck and kissed him.
"You should have brought the miracle-worker with you," she smiled.
"And instead of that I'm leaving her."
"Leaving Marjory--after this?"
"Sit down, little sister," he begged. "A great deal has happened this
morning--a great deal that I'm afraid it's going to be hard for you to
understand. It was hard for me to understand at first; and yet, after
all, it's merely a question of fact. It is n't anything that leaves
any chance for speculation. It just is, that's all. You see,
you--both of us--made an extraordinary mistake. We--we assumed that
Marjory was free."
"Free? Of course she's free!" exclaimed Beatrice.
"Only she's not," Peter informed her. "As a matter of fact, she's
married."
"Marjory--married!"
"To Covington. She's Covington's wife. They were married a few weeks
ago in Paris. You understand? She's Covington's wife." His voice
rose a trifle.
"Peter--you 're sure of that?"
"She told me so herself--less than an hour ago."
"That's impossible. Why, she listened to me when--"
"When what?" he cut in.
Frightened, she clasped her hands beneath her chin.
His eyes demanded a reply.
"I--I told her what the doctors told me. Don't look at me so, Peter!"
"You tried to win her sympathy for me?"
"They told me if you stopped worrying, your sight would come back. I
told her that, Peter."
"You told her more?"
"That if she could love you--oh, I could n't help it!"
"So that is why she listened to you; why she listened to me. You
begged for her pity, and--she gave it. I thought at least I could
leave her with my head up."
Beatrice began to sob.
"I--I did the best I knew how," she pleaded.
His head was bowed. He looked crushed. Throwing herself upon her
knees in front of him, Beatrice reached for his clasped hands.
"I did the best I knew!" she moaned.
"Yes," he answered dully; "you did that. Every one has done that.
Only--nothing should have been done at all. Nothing can ever be done."
"You--you forgive me, Peter?"
"Yes."
But his voice was dead. It had no meaning.
"It may all be for the best," she ran on, anxious to revive him.
"We'll go back to New York, Peter--you and I. Perhaps you'll let me
stay with you there. We'll get a little apartment together, so that I
can care for you. I 'll do that all the days of my life, if you 'll
let me."
"I want a better fate than that for you, little sister," he answered.
Rising, he helped her to her feet. He smoothed back her hair from her
forehead and kissed her there.
"It won't do to look ahead very far, or backwards either just now," he
said. "But if I can believe there is something still left in life for
me, I must believe there is a great deal more left for you. Only we
must get away from here as soon as possible."
"You have your eyes, Peter," she exclaimed exultingly. "She can't take
those away from you again!"
"Hush," he warned. "You must never blame her for anything."
"You mean you still--"
"Still and forever, little sister," he answered. "But we must not talk
of that."
"Poor Peter," she trembled.
"Rich Peter!" he corrected, with a wan smile. "There are so many who
have n't as much as that."
He went back to his room. The next thing to do was to write some sort
of explanation to Covington. His ears burned as he thought of the
other letter he had sent. How it must have bored into the man! How it
must have hurt! He had been forced to read the confession of love of
another man for his wife. The wonder was that he had not taken the
next train back and knocked down the writer. It must be that he
understood the hopelessness of such a passion. Perhaps he had smiled!
Only that was not like Covington. Rather, he had gripped his jaws and
stood it.
But if it had hurt and he hankered for revenge, he was to have it now.
He, Noyes, had bared his soul to the husband and confessed a love that
now he must stand up and recant. That was punishment enough for any
man. He must do that, too, without violating any of Marjory's
confidences--without helping in any way to disentangle the pitiful
snarl that it was within his power to disentangle. She whose happiness
might partly have recompensed him for what he had to do, he must still
leave unhappy. As far as he himself was concerned, however, he was
entitled to tell the truth. He could not recant his love. That would
be false. But he had no right to it--that was what he must make
Covington understand.
_Dear Covington_ [he began]: I am writing this with my eyes open. The
miracle I spoke of came to pass. Also a great many other things have
come to pass. You'll realize how hard it is to write about them after
that other letter, when I tell you I have learned the truth: that
Marjory is Mrs. Covington. She told me herself, when our relations
reached a crisis where she had to tell.
I feel, naturally, as if I owed you some sort of apology; and yet, when
I come to frame it, I find myself baffled. Of course I'm leaving for
home as soon as possible--probably to-morrow. Of course if I had known
the truth I should have left long ago, and that letter would never have
had any occasion for being written. I'm assuming, Covington, that you
will believe that without any question. You knew what I did not know
and did not tell me even after you knew how I felt. I suppose you felt
so confident of her that you trusted her absolutely to handle an affair
of this sort herself.
I want to say right here, you were justified. Whatever in that other
letter I may have said to lead you to believe she had come to care for
me in the slightest was a result solely of my own self-delusion and her
innate gentleness. I have discovered that my sister, meaning no harm,
went to her and told her that the restoration of my sight depended upon
her interest in me. It was manifestly unfair of my sister to put it
that way, but the little woman was thinking only of me. I'm sorry it
was done. Evidently it was the basis upon which she made the feeble
promise I spoke of, and which I exaggerated into something more.
She cared for me no more than for a friend temporarily afflicted.
That's all, Covington. Neither in word nor thought nor deed has she
ever gone any further. Looking back upon the last few days now, it is
clear enough. Rather than hurt me, she allowed me to talk--allowed me
to believe. Rather, she suffered it. It was not pleasant for her.
She endured it because of what my sister had said. It seems hard luck
that I should have been led in this fashion to add to whatever other
burdens she may have had.
I ask you to believe--it would be an impertinence, except for what I
told you before--that on her side there has been nothing between us of
which you could not approve.
Now for myself. In the light of what I know to-day, I could not have
written you of her as I did. Yet, had I remained silent, all I said
would have remained just as much God's truth as then. Though I must
admit the utter hopelessness of my love, I see no reason why I should
think of attempting to deny that love. It would n't be decent to
myself, to you, or to her. It began before you came into her life at
all. It has grown bigger and cleaner since then. It persists to-day.
I'm talking to you as man to man, Covington. I know you won't confuse
that statement with any desire on my part--with any hope, however
remote--to see that love fulfilled further than it is fulfilled to-day.
That delusion has vanished forever. I shall never entertain it again,
no matter what course your destiny or her destiny may take. I cannot
make that emphatic enough, Covington. It is based upon a certain
knowledge of facts which, unfortunately, I am not at liberty to reveal
to you.
So, as far as my own emotions are concerned then, I retract nothing of
what I told you. In fact, to-day I could say more. To me she is and
ever will be the most wonderful woman who ever lived. Thinking of you
before, I said there ought to be two of her, so that one might be left
for you. Now, thinking of myself, I would to God there were two of
her, so that one might be left for me. Yet that is inconceivable. It
might be possible to find another who looked like her; who thought like
her; who was willing for the big things of life like her. But this
other would not be Marjory. Besides everything else she has in common
with other women, she has something all her own that makes her herself.
It's that something that has got hold of me, Covington.
I don't suppose it's in particularly good taste for me to talk to you
of your wife in this fashion; but it's my dying speech, old man, as far
as this subject is concerned, and I 'm talking to you and to no one
else.
There's just one thing more I want to say. I don't want either you or
Marjory to think I'm going out of your lives a martyr--that I'm going
off to pine and die. The first time she left me I made an ass of
myself, and that was because I had not then got hold of the essential
fact of love. As I see it now, love--real love--does not lie in the
personal gratification of selfish desires. The wanting is only the
first stage. Perhaps it is a ruse of Nature to entice men to the
second stage, which is giving.
Until recently my whole thought was centered on getting. I was
thinking of myself alone. It was baffled desire and injured vanity
that led me to do what I did before, and I was justly punished. It was
when I began to think less about myself and more about her that I was
reprieved. I'm leaving her now with but one desire: to do for her
whatever I may, at any time and in any place, to make her happy; and,
because of her, to do the same for any others with whom for the rest of
my life I may be thrown in contact. Thus I may be of some use and find
peace.
I'm going away, Covington. That will leave her here alone. Wherever
you are, there must be trains back to Nice--starting perhaps within the
hour.
So long.
PETER J. NOYES.