III
I am speaking at this later time in the position of a clergyman, and in
the character of a man of mature age. Remember that; and you will
understand why I pass as rapidly as possible over the events of the next
year of my life - why I say as little as I can of the errors and the
delusions of my youth.
I called on her the next day. I repeated my visits during the days and
weeks that followed, until the shabby little house in the by-street had
become a second and (I say it with shame and self-reproach) a dearer home
to me.
All of herself and her story which she thought fit to confide to me
under these circumstances may be repeated to you in few words.
The name by which letters were addressed to her was "Mademoiselle
J�romette." Among the ignorant people of the house and the small tradesmen
of the neighborhood - who found her name not easy of pronunciation by the
average English tongue - she was known by the friendly nickname of "The
French Miss." When I knew her, she was resigned to her lonely life among
strangers. Some years had elapsed since she had lost her parents, and had
left France. Possessing a small, very small, income of her own, she added
to it by coloring miniatures for the photographers. She had relatives
still living in France; but she had long since ceased to correspond with
them. "Ask me nothing more about my family," she used to say. "I am as
good as dead in my own country and among my own people."
This was all - literally all - that she told me of herself. I have
never discovered more of her sad story from that day to this.
She never mentioned her family name - never even told me what part of
France she came from or how long she had lived in England. That she was by
birth and breeding a lady, I could entertain no doubt; her manners, her
accomplishments, her ways of thinking and speaking, all proved it. Looking
below the surface, her character showed itself in aspects not common among
young women in these days. In her quiet way she was an incurable fatalist,
and a firm believer in the ghostly reality of apparitions from the dead.
Then again in the matter of money, she had strange views of her own.
Whenever my purse was in my hand, she held me resolutely at a distance
from first to last. She refused to move into better apartments; the shabby
little house was clean inside, and the poor people who lived in it were
kind to her - and that was enough. The most expensive present that she
ever permitted me to offer her was a little enameled ring, the plainest
and cheapest thing of the kind in the jeweler's shop. In all relations
with me she was sincerity itself. On all occasions, and under all
circumstances, she spoke her mind (as the phrase is) with the same
uncompromising plainness.
"I like you," she said to me; "I respect you; I shall always be
faithful to you while you are faithful to me. But my love has gone from
me. There is another man who has taken it away with him, I know not
where."
Who was the other man?
She refused to tell me. She kept his rank and his name strict secrets
from me. I never discovered how he had met with her, or why he had left
her, or whether the guilt was his of making of her an exile from her
country and her friends. She despised herself for still loving him; but
the passion was too strong for her - she owned it and lamented it with the
frankness which was so preeminently a part of her character. More than
this, she plainly told me, in the early days of our acquaintance, that she
believed he would return to her. It might be to-morrow, or it might be
years hence. Even if he failed to repent of his own cruel conduct, the man
would still miss her, as something lost out of his life; and, sooner or
later, he would come back.
"And will you receive him if he does come back?" I asked.
"I shall receive him," she replied, "against my own better judgment -
in spite of my own firm persuasion that the day of his return to me will
bring with it the darkest days of my life."
I tried to remonstrate with her.
"You have a will of your own," I said. "Exert it if he attempts to
return to you."
"I have no will of my own," she answered quietly, "where he is
concerned. It is my misfortune to love him." Her eyes rested for a moment
on mine, with the utter self-abandonment of despair. "We have said enough
about this," she added abruptly. "Let us say no more."
From that time we never spoke again of the unknown man. During the year
that followed our first meeting, she heard nothing of him directly or
indirectly. He might be living, or he might be dead. There came no word of
him, or from him. I was fond enough of her to be satisfied with this - he
never disturbed us.
IV
The year passed - and the end came. Not the end as you may have
anticipated it, or as I might have foreboded it.
You remember the time when your letters from home informed you of the
fatal termination of our mother's illness? It is the time of which I am
now speaking. A few hours only before she breathed her last, she called me
to her bedside, and desired that we might be left together alone.
Reminding me that her death was near, she spoke of my prospects in life;
she noticed my want of interest in the studies which were then supposed to
be engaging my attention, and she ended by entreating me to reconsider my
refusal to enter the Church.
"Your father's heart is set upon it," she said. "Do what I ask of you,
my dear, and you will help to comfort him when I am gone."
Her strength failed her: she could say no more. Could I refuse the last
request she would ever make to me? I knelt at the bedside, and took her
wasted hand in mine, and solemnly promised her the respect which a son
owes to his mother's last wishes.
Having bound myself by this sacred engagement, I had no choice but to
accept the sacrifice which it imperatively exacted from me. The time had
come when I must tear myself free from all unworthy associations. No
matter what the effort cost me, I must separate myself at once and forever
from the unhappy woman who was not, who never could be, my wife.
At the close of a dull foggy day I set forth with a heavy heart to say
the words which were to part us forever.
Her lodging was not far from the banks of the Thames. As I drew near
the place the darkness was gathering, and the broad surface of the river
was hidden from me in a chill white mist. I stood for a while, with my
eyes fixed on the vaporous shroud that brooded over the flowing water - I
stood and asked myself in despair the one dreary question: "What am I to
say to her?"
The mist chilled me to the bones. I turned from the river-bank, and
made my way to her lodgings hard by. "It must be done!" I said to myself,
as I took out my key and opened the house door.
She was not at her work, as usual, when I entered her little
sitting-room. She was standing by the fire, with her head down and with an
open letter in her hand.
The instant she turned to meet me, I saw in her face that something was
wrong. Her ordinary manner was the manner of an unusually placid and
self-restrained person. Her temperament had little of the liveliness which
we associate in England with the French nature. She was not ready with her
laugh; and in all my previous experience, I had never yet known her to
cry. Now, for the first time, I saw the quiet face disturbed; I saw tears
in the pretty brown eyes. She ran to meet me, and laid her head on my
breast, and burst into a passionate fit of weeping that shook her from
head to foot.
Could she by any human possibility have heard of the coming change in
my life? Was she aware, before I had opened my lips, of the hard necessity
which had brought me to the house?
It was simply impossible; the thing could not be.
I waited until her first burst of emotion had worn itself out. Then I
asked - with an uneasy conscience, with a sinking heart - what had
happened to distress her.
She drew herself away from me, sighing heavily, and gave me the open
letter which I had seen in her hand.
"Read that," she said. "And remember I told you what might happen when
we first met."
I read the letter.
It was signed in initials only; but the writer plainly revealed himself
as the man who had deserted her. He had repented; he had returned to her.
In proof of his penitence he was willing to do her the justice which he
had hitherto refused - he was willing to marry her, on the condition that
she would engage to keep the marriage a secret, so long as his parents
lived. Submitting this proposal, he waited to know whether she would
consent, on her side, to forgive and forget.
I gave her back the letter in silence. This unknown rival had done me
the service of paving the way for our separation. In offering her the
atonement of marriage, he had made it, on my part, a matter of duty to
her, as well as to myself, to say the parting words. I felt this
instantly. And yet, I hated him for helping me.
She took my hand, and led me to the sofa. We sat down, side by side.
Her face was composed to a sad tranquillity. She was quiet; she was
herself again.
"I have refused to see him, she said, "until I had first spoken to you.
You have read his letter. What do you say?"
I could make but one answer. It was my duty to tell her what my own
position was in the plainest terms. I did my duty - leaving her free to
decide on the future for herself. Those sad words said, it was useless to
prolong the wretchedness of our separation. I rose, and took her hand for
the last time.
I see her again now, at that final moment, as plainly as if it had
happened yesterday. She had been suffering from an affection of the
throat; and she had a white silk handkerchief tied loosely round her neck.
She wore a simple dress of purple merino, with a black-silk apron over it.
Her face was deadly pale; her fingers felt icily cold as they closed round
my hand.
"Promise me one thing," I said, "before I go. While I live, I am your
friend - if I am nothing more. If you are ever in trouble, promise that
you will let me know it."
She started, and drew back from me as if I had struck her with a sudden
terror.
"Strange!' she said, speaking to herself. "He feels as I feel.
He is afraid of what may happen to me, in my life to come."
I attempted to reassure her. I tried to tell her what was indeed the
truth - that I had only been thinking of the ordinary chances and changes
of life, when I spoke.
She paid no heed to me; she came back and put her hands on my shoulders
and thoughtfully and sadly looked up in my face.
"My mind is not your mind in this matter," she said. "I once owned to
you that I had my forebodings, when we first spoke of this man's return. I
may tell you now, more than I told you then. I believe I shall die young,
and die miserably. If I am right, have you interest enough still left in
me to wish to hear of it?"
She paused, shuddering - and added these startling words:
"You shall hear of it."
The tone of steady conviction in which she spoke alarmed and distressed
me. My face showed her how deeply and how painfully I was affected.
"There, there!" she said, returning to her natural manner; "don't take
what I say too seriously. A poor girl who has led a lonely life like mine
thinks strangely and talks strangely - sometimes. Yes; I give you my
promise. If I am ever in trouble, I will let you know it. God bless you -
you have been very kind to me - good-by!"
A tear dropped on my face as she kissed me. The door closed between us.
The dark street received me.
It was raining heavily. I looked up at her window, through the drifting
shower. The curtains were parted: she was standing in the gap, dimly lit
by the lamp on the table behind her, waiting for our last look at each
other. Slowly lifting her hand, she waved her farewell at the window, with
the unsought native grace which had charmed me on the night when we first
met. The curtain fell again - she disappeared - nothing was before me,
nothing was round me, but the darkness and the night.
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