From that moment she had won her pardon. He took her hand and made
her sit by him.
"Yes," he said, "I have heard of Miss Max, and of her wonderful
powers of personation; and I have always regretted not having seen
her while she was on the stage."
"Did you hear anything more of her, Ernest?"
"Yes; I heard that she was a pattern of modesty and good conduct,
and that she gave up her profession at the height of her success
to marry an old man."
"Will you come with me to my room?" she asked. "I have something
there which I wish to show you."
It was the copy of her husband's will.
"Read the lines, Ernest, which begin at the top of the page. Let
my dead husband speak for me."
The lines ran thus:
"My motive in marrying Miss Max must be stated in this place, in
justice to her, and, I will venture to add, in justice to myself.
I felt the sincerest sympathy for her position. She was without
father, mother, or friends, one of the poor forsaken children
whom the mercy of the foundling hospital provides with a home. Her
after life on the stage was the life of a virtuous woman, persecuted
by profligates, insulted by some of the baser creatures associated
with her, to whom she was an object of envy. I offered her a home
and the protection of a father, on the only terms which the world
would recognise as worthy of us. My experience of her since our
marriage has been the experience of unvarying goodness, sweetness,
and sound sense. She has behaved so nobly in a trying position
that I wish her (even in this life) to have her reward. I entreat
her to make a second choice in marriage, which shall not be a mere
form. I firmly believe that she will choose well and wisely, that
she will make the happiness of a man who is worthy of her, and
that, as wife and mother, she will set an example of inestimable
value in the social sphere that she occupies. In proof of the
heartfelt sincerity with which I pay my tribute to her virtues, I
add to this, my will, the clause that follows."
With the clause that followed Ernest was already acquainted.
"Will you now believe that I never loved till I saw your face for
the first time?" said his wife. "I had no experience to place me
on my guard against the fascination--the madness, some people might
call it--which possesses a woman when all her heart is given to
a man. Don't despise me, my dear! Remember that I had to save you
from disgrace and ruin. Besides, my old stage remembrances tempted
me. I had acted in a play in which the heroine did--what I have done.
It didn't end with me as it did with her in the story. _She_
was represented as rejoicing in the success of her disguise. I have
known some miserable hours of doubt and shame since our marriage.
When I went to meet you in my own person at the picture-gallery,
oh, what relief, what joy I felt when I saw how you admired me! It
was not because I could no longer carry on the disguise; I was able
to get hours of rest from the effort, not only at night, but in
the daytime, when I was shut up in my retirement in the music-room,
and when my maid kept watch against discovery. No, my love! I hurried
on the disclosure because I could no longer endure the hateful
triumph of my own deception. Ah, look at that witness against me!
I can't bear even to see it."
She abruptly left him. The drawer that she had opened to take out
the copy of the will also contained the false gray hair which she
had discarded. It had only that moment attracted her notice. She
snatched it up and turned to the fireplace.
Ernest took it from her before she could destroy it. "Give it to
me," he said.
"Why?"
He drew her gently to his bosom, and answered, "I must not forget
my old wife."