the letter.
‘Not yet,’ I said, and I went to the window. The dull red of a London sunset burned on the paper, as I read in the pretty handwriting I knew so well, and had kissed so often:
DEAR: I do – I do love you; but it’s impossible. I must marry Arthur. My honour is engaged. If he would only set me free – but he never will. He loves me foolishly. But as for me – it is you I love – body, soul, and spirit. There is no one in my heart but you. I think of you all day, and dream of you all night. And we must part. Goodbye – Yours, yours, yours,
ELVIRA
I had seen the handwriting, indeed, often enough. But the passion there was new to me. That I had not seen.
I turned from the window. My sitting-room looked strange to me. There were my books, my reading-lamp, my untasted dinner still on the table, as I had left it when I rose to dissemble my surprise at Ida Helmont’s visit – Ida Helmont, who now sat looking at me quietly.
‘Well – do you give me no thanks?’
‘You put a knife in my heart, and then ask for thanks?’
‘Pardon me,’ she said, throwing up her chin. ‘I have done nothing but show you the truth. For that one should expect no gratitude – may I ask, out of pure curiosity, what you intend to do?’
‘Your brother will tell you—’
She rose suddenly, very pale, and her eyes haggard.
‘You will not tell my brother?’
She came towards me – her gold hair flaming in the sunset light.
‘Why are you so angry with me?’ she said. ‘Be reasonable. What else could I do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Would it have been right not to tell you?’
‘I don’t know. I only know that you’ve put the sun out, and I haven’t got used to the dark yet.’
‘Believe me,’ she said, coming still nearer to me, and laying her hands in the lightest touch on my shoulders, ‘believe me, she never loved you.’
There was a softness in her tone that irritated and stimulated me. I moved gently back, and her hands fell by her sides.
‘I beg your pardon,’ I said. ‘I have behaved very badly. You were quite right to come, and I am not ungrateful. Will you post a letter for me?’
I sat down and wrote:
I give you back your freedom. The only gift of mine that can please you now.—
ARTHUR
I held the sheet out to Miss Helmont, but she would not look at it. I folded, sealed, stamped, and addressed it.
‘Goodbye,’ I said then, and gave her the letter. As the door closed behind her, I sank into my chair, and cried like a child, or a fool, over my lost play-thing – the little, dark-haired woman who loved someone else with ‘body, soul, and spirit’.
I did not hear the door open or any foot on the floor, and therefore I started when a voice behind me said:
‘Are you so very unhappy? Oh, Arthur, don’t think I am not sorry for you!’
‘I don’t want anyone to be sorry for me, Miss Helmont,’ I said.
She was silent a moment. Then, with a quick, sudden, gentle movement she leaned down and kissed my forehead – and I heard the door softly close. Then I knew that the beautiful Miss Helmont loved me.
At first that thought only fleeted by – a light cloud against a grey sky – but the next day reason woke, and said:
‘Was Miss Helmont speaking the truth? Was it possible that—’
I determined to see Elvira, to know from her own lips whether by happy fortune this blow came, not from her, but from a woman in whom love might have killed honesty.
I walked from Hampstead to Gower Street. As I trod its long length, I saw a figure in pink come out of one of the houses. It was Elvira. She walked in front of me to the corner of Store Street. There she met Oscar Helmont. They turned and met me face to face, and I saw all I needed to see. They loved each other. Ida Helmont had spoken the truth. I bowed and passed on. Before six months were gone, they were married, and before a year was over, I had married Ida Helmont.
What did it, I don’t know. Whether it was remorse for having, even for half a day, dreamed that she could be so base as to forego a lie to gain a lover, or whether it was her beauty, or the sweet flattery of the preference of a woman who had half her acquaintance at her feet, I don’t know; anyhow, my thoughts turned to her as to their natural home. My heart, too, took that road, and before very long I loved her as I never loved Elvira. Let no one doubt that I loved her – as I shall never love again – please God!
There never was anyone like her. She was brave and beautiful, witty and wise, and beyond all measure adorable. She was the only woman in the world. There was a frankness – a largeness of heart – about her that made all other women seem small and contemptible. She loved me and I worshipped her. I married her, I stayed with her for three golden weeks, and then I left her. Why?
Because she told me the truth. It was one night – late – we had sat all the evening in the veranda of our seaside lodging, watching the moonlight on the water, and listening to the soft sound of the sea on the sand. I have never been so happy; I shall never be happy any more, I hope.
‘My dear, my dear,’ she said, leaning her gold head against my shoulder, ‘how much do you love me?’
‘How much?’
‘Yes – how much? I want to know what place I hold in your heart. Am I more to you than anyone else?’
‘My love!’
‘More than yourself?’
‘More than my life.’
‘I believe you,’ she said. Then she drew a long breath, and took my hands in hers. ‘It can make no difference. Nothing in heaven or earth can come between us now.’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘But, my dear one, what is it?’
For she was trembling, pale.
‘I must tell you,’ she said; ‘I cannot hide anything now from you, because I am yours – body, soul, and spirit.’
The phrase was an echo that stung.
The moonlight shone on her gold hair, her soft, warm, gold hair, and on her pale face.
‘Arthur,’ she said, ‘you remember my coming to Hampstead with that letter.’
‘Yes, my sweet, and I remember how you—’
‘Arthur!’ she spoke fast and low – ‘Arthur, that letter was a forgery. She never wrote it. I—’
She stopped,
