THE FALL OF THE WEAK.
He had the firmest intention to lay bare before Miss Wood the miserable
facts, without the faintest hope for pardon. He knew this frank, pure
girl so well by this time that her reception of the humiliating truth
was as plain as day to him. The esteem in which she had held him would
vanish with the first recovery from the shock his words would bring;
all the honors he had won through her instrumentality would turn to the
most despised of memories; all that she had done for him would be
regretted; the dear companionship, the cheer, the encouragement, all
would go.
He had not intended a wrong in the beginning. In his wretched brain
there was the persistent cry: "You did not think! You did not know
what you were doing! There was no desire to gain by this deception.
You did not intend to be dishonest!"
It had begun with the sly desire to surprise the "boys" some happy day
when he could show to them the wife who was his pride. Almost
unconsciously he had gone deeper into the mire of circumstances from
which he could not now flounder except with sullied honor. Without a
thought as to the seriousness of the situation, he had allowed this
innocent friend to compromise herself by an almost constant association
with him. He had intended telling her the secret when first he met
her, exacting a promise to keep it from Converse for a little while, at
least. She was to be his confidante, his and Justine's, for he meant
to tell her that the brave little woman of Proctor's Falls cherished
her as ideal, unknown but loved.
Celeste had unconsciously baffled all these good intentions, building a
wall about the truth so strong that it could not break through. It
went on, this sweet comradeship, until he--a married man--was looked
upon by outsiders as the man to whom this unattainable girl had given
her love. Converse's blunt assertion had given him the first inkling
of the consequences the intimacy had engendered. Worse than all else,
he now realized how dear Celeste Wood had become to him. On one hand,
Justine was his ideal; on the other hand, Celeste was an ideal. It
seemed to him as he rode in a hansom to the North Side the next night
after his talk with Converse that he could not bear to lose one more
than the other. Both were made for him to adore.
He faltered as he mounted the steps at the Wood home. At the top he
turned and looked out over the lake. A wild desire to rush down and
throw himself over the sea-wall into the dark, slashing waters came
upon him. To go inside meant the end of happiness so far as Celeste
Wood was concerned; to turn away would mean the end of his honor and
his conscience.
As he stood debating she opened the door and he was trapped. A
dazzling light shone in upon his darkness and he staggered forward
deeper into its warm radiance, conscious only that a deadly chill had
been cast off and that he was in the glow of her smile.
In the dimly lighted hall, red and seductive from the swinging lantern
with its antique trappings and scarlet eyes, he removed his overcoat
and threw it, with his hat, upon the Flemish chair. Slim, sweet and
graceful, she looked up into his somber face. There was a quizzical
smile on hers. And now, for the first time, he saw more than
friendship in those violet eyes. Plain, too plain, was the glint that
brightened the dark pupils; too plain were the roses in her cheeks.
"I know you appear very distinguished and important when you wear that
expression, but I'd much rather see you smile," she said, gaily.
"Smiles are too expensive, sometimes," he said, without knowing what he
uttered.
"I'll buy them at your own price," she laughed, but a shade of anxiety
crossed her face.
"No; I'll trade my dull smiles for your bright ones. It will be enough
to cheat, without robbing you," he said, pulling himself together and
allowing a dead smile to come to life.
Her den was the most seductive of rooms. It was beautiful, quaint,
indolent. Before he dropped into his accustomed chair his muscles were
drawn taut; an instant later he was aware of a long sigh and conscious
of relaxation. His brain cleared, his courage revived, and he was
framing the sentences which were to lead up to that final confession.
He had an eager desire to have it over with and to hurry away from her
wrath.
She, on the other hand, was all excitement over the report that he was
at last to do book-illustrating. She brought a tingling to his heart
by her undisguised gladness. Her face was so bright with joy, so alive
with interest, that he could but defer striking the blow.
"But perhaps you'd rather talk about some other subject than yourself,"
she said, finally. "I want to tell you about my brother. He is in
Egypt now and he is wild over everything there:--perfectly crazy. A
letter came to-day and he gives a wonderful account of a trip to an old
town up the Nile. Those boys must be fairly awakening the mummies if
we are to judge by his letters. He has set me wild to go to Egypt.
Shall I read his letter to you?"
Patiently he listened to an entertaining letter from the boy who was
seeing the world with a party of friends. As she read, he watched her
face. It was a face to idolize, a face to covet, a face for the memory
to subsist upon forever. Stealing into his troubled heart came the
realization that this girl was enthroned there beside that other loved
one, both for him to worship and both to worship him. There grew into
shape, positive and strong, the delightful certainty that these two
women could love each other and that in so loving could share his
honest love, for now he believed that his love was big enough to
envelope them both. As she read to him this dream mastered and
enslaved him and his heart expanded, letting in the love of this second
petitioner, dividing the kingdom fairly that she might reign with the
one already there. He convinced himself that he loved two women
honestly, purely and with his whole soul. He loved unreservedly and
equally Justine, his wife, and Celeste, his friend.
"You're not listening at all," she cried, dropping the letter suddenly.
"What are you thinking of?"
"Of--of the very strangest of things," he stammered.
"But not of the letter? I am so sorry I bored you with----"
"Stop! Please, stop! Pardon me, I--I--for God's sake, let me think!"
he burst out, starting to his feet. He strode to the window and, with
his back to her, looked out into the night. The action, sudden and
inexplicable, brought flashes of red and white to her face, and then a
steady glow--the flush not of indignation, but of joy. A heart throb
sent the blood tingling through her veins and a smile flew to her
startled face. Her eyes melted with a sweet, tender joy and her whole
being was suffused with the radiance of understanding. Woman's
intuition told her all, and, with clasped hands, she looked upon the
motionless figure. One hand went out toward him as if to lead him into
the light of her love. He loved her!
She went to the piano and gently, with a soft smile on her lips, began
to play "La Paloma," the daintiest of waltzes, for her heart was
dancing. At last he turned slowly and looked upon the player. Her
back was toward him. His eyes took in the picture--the white shoulders
and neck, the pretty head, the dark hair and the red rose. All his
good resolutions, all his remorse, all his honor fled with the first
glance. The dullness left his eyes and in its stead came the flaring
spark of passion. He strode impulsively to her side and when she
glanced up in confusion, her eyes found the refuge they had sought--the
awakened love in his.
[Illustration: "HIS EYES TOOK IN THE PICTURE."]
"O, Jud!" she murmured, faint and happy.
"Celeste!" he whispered, hoarsely, his face almost in her hair. "I
worship you! I adore you!"
He crushed her in his arms and she smiled through her tears.