BITTER SWEET.
In the afternoon of the next day, Homer Orton presented himself at
Percy's apartments, only to be met by Mrs. Griffith, and informed of
that young man's critical condition.
"He is slightly easier to-day," she said, "but we are instructed to keep
him very quiet. There is little hope entertained of his recovery."
The journalist stood for a moment silent, shocked, bewildered. Then he
spoke:
"I wish to consult him upon a matter of the gravest importance. Can you
direct me to his most intimate friend or relative, to whom I might
impart some very serious information? It is a matter which cannot wait."
Mrs. Griffith was impressed with the earnestness of the young man's
manner. Reluctantly she stepped into the adjoining study, where
Helena's shapely form lay stretched upon a broad lounge. It was the
first respite she had taken from her position as watcher. She seemed to
be sleeping, and Mrs. Griffith spoke her name softly, unwilling to
disturb her.
But Helena was not sleeping. Though worn out with fatigue and
excitement, the memory of Dolores' face, as it appeared for one brief,
terrible second at the door of Percy's apartment, drove slumber from her
pillow.
The consciousness that her old friend was in the city, near to her,
suffering all the agonies of slighted wounded love, wrung her gentle
heart with inexpressible pain. She longed to go to her, to take her in
her arms, to comfort her. She longed to bring her to Percy's bed-side,
and to say: "Stay here with me; together we will minister to his dying
needs; it is our mutual right, our mutual sorrow." But even if she could
find Dolores, that suffering tortured woman would turn from her, in
bitterness and anger. And Percy must not know that she was in the city;
the knowledge might prove fatal to him in his weak, exhausted condition.
She arose wearily as Mrs. Griffith made known her errand.
"Do not let Percy know, that I am disturbed:" she said. "He made me
promise to sleep until evening, without once leaving my couch. He would
be annoyed if he knew I had disobeyed him."
"What! using authority so _soon_?" playfully asked Mrs. Griffith.
Helena answered only by a sad smile, as she passed out to meet Homer
Orton. He arose with surprise, confusion, and distress mingled in his
expression, as his eyes fell upon a comely young woman.
"I had a very painful piece of information to impart to Mr. Durand," he
began, "and wished to ask his advice on the proper course to pursue. It
is, however, a matter so extremely personal and of such a delicate
nature, that I hardly know how to broach it to you. Are you--a
relative?"
"I am Mr. Durand's nearest friend and confidant. We are very closely
related indeed," Helena answered quietly. "Please proceed with what you
have to say."
Homer drew a copy of the morning paper from his pocket.
"This paper reports the sudden death of an acquaintance of Mr. Durand,"
he said. "We both knew her abroad; but it seems she has been living in
New York under an assumed name, or at least under the name of Madame
Percy. I recognized her this afternoon as I visited her remains in
company with another journalist, as the lady who had bestowed most
graceful hospitality upon both Mr. Durand and myself, while we were
abroad. I feel personally interested in her as a friend, and I am
certain, that he also does. Whatever her secrets, or her sorrows, I
desire to keep them from the daily papers. I wished the advice and
assistance of Mr. Durand in this matter. The apartments of the deceased
lady are left in care of a French maid who cannot speak a word of
English. Unless some friend takes charge of her effects, it will be
impossible to avoid an exposure of what I fear is a painful history."
"Exposure must be avoided at any cost," cried Helena, her voice choked
with tears, her heart torn anew over this additional and unexpected
sorrow. "Madame Percy was a dear friend of mine. I know her entire
history; it is most sad, most unfortunate, but it must not be given to
the public; it must not be discussed by curious people who did not know
her as I knew her--to love and to pity."
"It need not be given to the public," Homer Orton answered, firmly. "But
you must go at once and take charge of her effects. The knowledge that
she has friends in the city will prevent the sensation-seekers from
ferreting out her history. You can give the reporters such facts as you
choose concerning her life, if they approach you, and I will use my
influence to prevent anything unpleasant from creeping into print."
And so, while Percy believed Helena to be sleeping, she performed the
last sad rites for the woman who had been her dearest friend and her
unintentional foe. With the exception of faithful Lorette, she was the
only mourner to shed tears as the beautiful body was lowered to its
last resting-place. Tears made more scalding and bitter by the thought
of another burial drawing near, where she must officiate in the lasting
character of a life-long mourner.
* * * * *
A story which closes with a suicide and a death is not a pleasant story
to relate, or to read. Yet we who peruse our daily papers, know that
such stories are very true to life.
It is gratifying to me, however, that I need not complete my narrative
with a double tragedy.
Percy did not die.
It might have been owing to the mental condition produced by the
knowledge that Helena was really his wife, or it might have been due
to the skill of his physician; but certain it is, that he
recovered--recovered, to realize that he had gained a wife almost by
"false pretenses;" and that Dolores was no longer in existence upon
the earth where she came an undesired child, and from which she went
forth a suffering, desperate woman.
Shocked and almost crazed with the knowledge of this tragedy, Percy
called Helena to him, a few hours after she had imparted the sad
information.
"I feel like a cheat and a liar," he said; looking mournfully in her
eyes, "to think I did not die as I promised. But I shall not offend you
with my presence long. As soon as my strength permits I am going abroad,
to remain an indefinite time. I feel that I shall never return to my
native land; something tells me I shall find a grave among strangers.
Our marriage will, of course, remain a secret with the few who know it
now, and need cause you no annoyance."
Percy followed out the course of action he had set for himself, but, as
is frequently the case with presentiments of evil, his impression that
he was to find a grave among strangers was not verified.
He returned, after two years spent in travel, bronzed and robust, the
light of his pure love for Helena shining more warmly than ever in his
blue eyes.
It is so easy for a man to live down the errors that a woman (Christ
pity her) can only expiate in the grave.
He reached out his arms, when he once more stood face to face with
Helena.
"Can you not forgive all that miserable darkened past, and come and
brighten the future for me?" he asked, in a voice that was like a
caress. "I love you and I need you, Helena."
She looked up into his face, her eyes heavy with unshed tears. The love
in her heart triumphed over every preconceived resolve, over every
cruel, agonizing memory, as great love always must.
Yet there are triumphs sadder than any defeat: there are joys more
painful than any woe. It was such a triumph, and such a joy, that filled
Helena's heart as she glided into her lover's embrace.
"Oh, yes, I can forgive it all," she sighed. "Because I love you and
because I am a _woman_. I sometimes think, Percy, that God must be a
woman. He is expected to forgive so much."
Into her great heart, as she nestled upon his breast, in this supreme
hour of reconciliation and recompense, there shot a keen, agonizing
memory of the woman she had displaced; of the woman who had wrecked her
whole happiness and lost her life in an unwise love for this man, whose
tender, passionate words were falling now upon willing ears.
It was a memory which must, to a nature as generous and unselfish as
hers, cast a melancholy shadow over the most intense hour of happiness
the future could hold for her.
It was a phantom shape, which must sit forever at her feasts of love.
Percy had made to her a complete surrender of his very soul; and she
knew that their doubly wedded spirits, like two united streams, would
mix and flow on together to the ocean of Eternity. Yet the more perfect
her own joy, the deeper into her sympathetic heart must sink the
sorrowful memories of Dolores.
Always, as she looked up to him with the worshiping eyes of a loyal
wife, and saw in him her hero, her ideal, her protector and her guide,
she must remember the young life his thoughtless, selfish folly helped
to lay in ruins. All these emotions, robed the joy of that nuptial hour
in mourning, as she lifted her sweet, sad face and filmy eyes to his.
And Percy, folding her in his arms, felt all a man's selfish pride, and
all a lover's keen rapture in the knowledge that he was pressing the
first kiss upon her pure lips, which had ever been placed there since
her father's dying benediction fell upon them.
THE END.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Note:
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Many words in the text occur in both hyphenated and non-hyphenated form
(e.g. room-mate/roommate): this is authentic to the original text.
Obsolete, variant or eccentric spelling has been retained. However, for
consistency, the names 'Volkenburg', 'Lorette', and 'Shelley' have been
changed when, in a few instances, they were spelled 'Volkenberg',
'Lorrete', and 'Shelly'.
Inconsistent quotation marks in the correspondence have been kept as
printed.
Punctuation has been standardised, and typographical errors have been
silently changed.