A HALF CONFESSION.
Sidney Martin was suffering greatly under his fresh burden of anxiety.
It seemed to him that all his future happiness or misery depended
absolutely upon the result of Trevor's mission. He kept away from the
house on Wimbledon Common, for he dared not trust himself in
conversation with Margaret. That he loved her, and loved her with the
profound, mature passion of manhood--how different from his boyish
fancy!--made it impossible for him to approach her with calm
friendliness, as he had done before her father's private talk with him,
and his avowal that Margaret herself was far from being indifferent to
him.
But now he had placed his secret in the hands of another, and must be
prepared to acknowledge his boyish error. He must lose Margaret, if
Sophy was alive. His imagination was busy in painting to him two
lives, either of which might be his in the immediate future.
If Sophy was found he must own her as his wife, and make her the
mistress of his house. He pictured her to himself as his wife, with
her silly, affected, low-bred manners. His inward disgust at his own
conduct exaggerated her faults, and painted her in the most repulsive
colors. Her relations and friends would certainly flock about her;
and, though he did not know them, he could not think of them as
anything but ignorant and vulgar; for they were nothing but poor
shopkeepers in a little market-town. He knew himself too well to
resolve upon carrying on a continual conflict with the woman he had
made his wife. He would leave her to follow her own way, while he took
his; but her way could not fail to intersect his at some points; and he
must be brought into contact with a vulgarity and folly which he
loathed. His lot must be that bitter one of being linked indissolubly
to a companion always at variance with him.
But possibly Sophy's long, persistent silence meant the silence of
death. If so, his future promised to be bright and happy far beyond
his deserts; for he frankly acknowledged to his own heart that he was
unworthy of the prosperous happiness Sophy's death would insure for
him. With Margaret as his wife, he might push his ambition to its
farthest goal, and meet with no check or shock from her. If she had a
fault, it was the transparent simplicity which made her almost too good
for this work-a-day world. She had a charm which no other woman he
knew possessed--a charm altogether apart from her personal loveliness.
He could fancy her an old woman with white hair, and dim eyes, and
faded-face, and yet retaining an indescribable attraction. She would
be as beautiful in his eyes when she was seventy as she was now. He
felt he could be a good man indeed if she was always at his side.
Day after day he went up to the City and transacted his business,
keeping the threads of his world-wide enterprises in his own hand, and
directing them with a clear, shrewd head. But he was waiting through
all the long hours for the letter which would contain his doom. Trevor
was to write to him the first certain information he gathered, and to
keep him acquainted with his progress from day to day. At last the
letter with the Austrian postmark came, and he fastened the door of his
office, giving orders that he was to be interrupted for no one.
It was but a few lines, but it told him that Trevor had seen the grave
where Sophy had lain for more than seven years. Sidney had prepared
himself, as he believed, for any news that might reach him, and yet it
came upon him like a thunderbolt. Poor Sophy! Still, what a relief it
was to know she would never trouble him again! And she had been dead
all these years, during which he had lived in deadly suspense and
terror, as of one over whom a sword was hanging. How foolish he had
been! If he had only had the courage to make this simple investigation
before how free and joyous the years he had lost would have been. But
he had lost these seven years of his youth as a penalty for his early
error, and now the punishment was over.
He had intended at first to spend this evening alone, in memory of
Sophy and her sad fate. But, before an hour had passed he grew
accustomed to the knowledge that she was dead, and felt as if he had
known it all these years. It had the dimness of an old sorrow. Seven
years in the grave! He did not feel that it would be any shock to
himself, or slight to Sophy's memory, if he yielded to his passionate
longing to hurry away to Margaret.
It was already evening when he rode swiftly across Wimbledon Common,
but it was an hour or two before his usual time, and Margaret was not
waiting for him at the open door. He was shown into the library, where
he had awaited her first appearance to him, now nearly a year ago. He
had loved her from the first moment he saw her, he said to himself; and
every day had increased his love. Would to God he was more worthy of
her! From the height of his love to her he looked down on the low and
foolish infatuation he had felt for Sophy. How could it be possible
that, even as a boy, he could have wasted his affections in such a way?
When Margaret opened the door, and came in softly, with a pale face,
and eyelids a little red with weeping, looking as she did when he first
saw her, he felt that she was even dearer to him than he had been
fancying.
"Sidney!" she said, meeting him with both hands outstretched, "we have
missed you more than I can tell. Why have you stayed away so long? My
father is so ill!"
"Margaret!" he cried stammering. He could not utter a word of all that
was in his heart, for he had resolved that, if possible, she should
never know of Sophy's existence. There would be no need for the world
to know, and he could make it worth while to Trevor to keep the secret.
For, after all, it was not a secret involving any important issues; and
if the worst came to the worst, he could tell Margaret when she was his
wife, and it did not signify to any other person, excepting Margaret's
father. He held her hands fast in a strong grasp as he looked at her;
and the color came and went on her face, and her eyes fell before his
gaze.
"I love you," he said, at length, with parched lips. He had always
thought it would be a moment of too great happiness when he could say
these words to Margaret, but it was one of heaviness and confusion of
soul. He wished now that he had waited a little longer, until he could
get rid of the haunting memory of Sophy.
"Yes," answered Margaret, in a very low, sweet tone, "and I love you,
Sidney!"
She spoke with the open simplicity of a child, but her lips quivered,
and the tears stood in her eyes. He folded her in his arms, and for a
minute or two they were both silent. The heaviness and bewilderment of
his soul passed away in the sense of present gladness. All the trouble
of his old folly was over; there was no harvest of bitterness to reap.
He was as free as if he had never fallen into any unworthy
entanglement. And the pure, sweet, true heart of this girl was as much
his own as if he had never known any other love. He declared to
himself he never had.
"I have never loved any woman but you," he exclaimed aloud, as if he
challenged his dead wife to contradict him.
"And I," she said, looking up into his face with a smile, "never
thought of loving any man but you."
He stooped down and kissed her. It was impossible to echo her words.
"Let us go and tell my father," she said, after a few minutes had
passed by; "he is ill, and we must not leave him too long alone. He is
very fond of you, Sidney."
He followed Margaret to the door of her father's room, but she passed
on, beckoning to him to go in alone. Colonel Cleveland lay on his
invalid couch, looking more worn than he had done the week before.
"Welcome back again, Sidney," he cried out, with a faint smile. "I was
afraid I had scared you away by my imprudence. And I cannot get along
without you, my friend."
"No, no," he answered; "I stayed away because I could not trust myself
with Margaret, after what you said."
"Not trust yourself with Margaret!" repeated Colonel Cleveland.
"You told me she loved me," he replied joyously, "and I love her as my
own soul. But I could not feel worthy of her. I will confess all to
you, but I do not wish her to know. While I was yet a mere lad, I
contracted a secret and most unsuitable marriage; but the girl died
seven years ago. I could not all at once ask Margaret to become my
wife after that."
"Are there any children?" inquired Colonel Cleveland.
"No; oh, no!" he answered. "How could such a matter be kept secret if
there had been any child?"
But, as he spoke, a dread flashed across his mind. Was it not possible
that Sophy had died in giving birth to her child, and the child be
still alive? But, if so, Trevor must have heard of it when he heard of
her death, and he would have added this most important item of
information in his letter. No, Sophy and her child lay together in the
lonely grave of the Ampezzo cemetery. He felt a strange, confused
sense of sadness in the thought, mingling with the gladness of being
sure that Margaret loved him.
"And you have lived with this secret all these years," said Colonel
Cleveland with a grave face. "It would have made a difference with my
old friend if he had known it."
"Yes," said Sidney frankly; "he would probably have disinherited me."
Colonel Cleveland looked keenly into the grave, but ingenuous face of
the young man, and Sidney bore his gaze with an air of honest regret.
He felt penitent, and his penitence sat well upon him. If a past wrong
could be blotted out forever, Sidney was ready to perform any penance
that would free himself from its consequences. He looked imploringly
at Colonel Cleveland.
"Don't let Margaret know," he entreated. "I want her to be happier
with me than any woman ever was with any husband. Only one man knows
it, and he will keep the secret faithfully. What good would it do for
her to be told of my boyish infatuation? If it was an important
matter, I would not keep it from her. But, just now, she looked into
my face and said: 'I never thought of loving any man but you.' I would
have given half my worldly goods to be able to say the same."
"Then you have spoken to Margaret?" said her father.
"The moment before I came to you," he answered.
"And she loves you?" he continued.
"Yes," said Sidney.
"God bless my Margaret!" cried Colonel Cleveland, in tremulous tones.
"Amen!" said Sidney. "God make me worthy of her love!"
There was a slight pause before Colonel Cleveland spoke again.
"I think it may be as you wish," he said. "Most young men have some
folly to confess; and this, though it seems more serious, was only a
folly, not a crime. The worst part of it is keeping it a secret all
these years. Seven years, did you say? But it is all over now, and
Margaret, dear child, need never know."