CHAPTER XX.
I TRY TO BRIDGE THE CHASM.
There sometimes come momentous epochs in the lives of men when it seems difficult to believe they are not dreaming.
Such a dazzling event had come to pass in my own experience.
I was not prepared for the shock—it was so entirely unexpected that my faculties seemed benumbed for the time being.
All but my brain—I could still think, although the one refrain that danced with many changes through my mind seemed to be:
“Hildegarde did not marry again—Hildegarde may even yet be my wife! Joy! joy! my wife, my Hildegarde!”
Her father—yes, I remembered now how conscientous she had been upon that matter, and insisted that before our marriage I should know how the old reprobate had brought a certain stigma of disgrace upon his family by eloping with a pretty widow who had fascinated him, and he a parson at that.
At the time I had treated the matter with the contempt it deserved, and stopped the sad tale by kissing the pretty mouth that endeavored to tell it. I was marrying Hildegarde, and not the old sinner who had proven too weak for his vows.
So he had popped up again, and had coaxed much of her fortune away; he had even shown his despicable nature by conspiring to rob his child of the remainder.
Undoubtedly he was as great a scamp as ever went unhung, and no punishment could be too severe for him; but, strange to say, I actually felt a softness toward the reverend fraud, for surely he was a vast improvement over the fascinating Hilary Tempest, the phantom that had long pursued me.
Hope—that shuttlecock of human souls—again soared upward.
Really, the atmosphere had cleared remarkably. If there was no other man in the case, why should I not by degrees win Hildegarde again? All the powers of earth and hell should not, must not, prevail against me.
I had made a beginning—already had she been forced to declare I was not like the man she believed she knew in the past.
Other steps might be taken to prove my worthiness, and how bitterly I repented ever having left her.
Why, the earth was not a desert at all; she might even consent to forgive—to go with me to the Mediterranean, to the dreamy land of the lotus, and there, along the historic Nile, we could coo and make love like a pair of fond turtledoves.
What a blessed vision!
Let Hilary Tempest rest—he had my best wishes to secure the heiress; I wished him joy, so long as his wife was other than my Hildegarde.
“What do you think of me, Hildegarde?” I managed to say, at length.
She would not look at me, much as I desired to see her face.
“It was a strange mistake,” she murmured.
“And yet you must admit, most natural. By accident—I can’t think it was design—you gave me no clew—you only said some man whom you loved and had trusted had deceived you—everything appeared to point to him. Once he was very attentive to you—how was I to know but that you had freed yourself from me and married again?”
“Some women would have done so.”
“That is true.”
“Would it—could you have blamed me?”
I swallowed a lump in my throat.
“No. It would have served me right. I was a fool, a dolt!” I said, bitterly, leaning over the rail in a dejected manner.
Perhaps I fondly hoped she might find it in her heart to forgive me then and there—perhaps I was even fool enough to think a pair of soft, clinging arms might comestealing around my neck as of yore. Ye gods! how I would have turned and taken her in my arms and crushed her to my heart, for I was hungry with love toward this dainty woman who had controlled my past, and, as I now knew full well, must direct my future until death came.
But she made no move to do such a thing. Indeed, she had become reserved, as though afraid she might overstep some line that had been marked out for observance.
There was a dignity, a womanly pride about her that chilled my ardor.
Evidently I had not yet been able to atone for my misdeeds; my penance must continue indefinitely.
“I have often thought we were both very headstrong in those days, Morgan. You have suffered remorse no more than I. Perhaps it was right we separated, since we failed to come up to each other’s ideals. But it is folly to lament over what is past. We shall go our ways—I will not intrude upon your good nature longer than is necessary, and shall keep to my room always.”
This was said with severe firmness. I took it to mean she did not care to meet Thorpe and his wife, to experience their sympathy and satisfy the natural curiosity Diana must show.
It was that and more—much more than a simple man could understand.
“Don’t say ‘intrude,’ Hildegarde. You pain me when you speak in that way. I would give all I possess to prove to you how keenly I regret the past. I have never known peace of mind since,” I said, earnestly.
“Men find a solace that is denied poor women—travel and congenial company may cure the worst case of melancholy and remorse. But I am not going to reproach you, Morgan, God knows. The past is gone, never to return. I resolutely forbid myself to think of it.”
“But, Hildegarde, is it utterly impossible to makeamends? I am ready to prove to you that though I gave you up in a nasty bit of passion, I have never ceased to love you—that in every way I have endeavored to forget I could not. Is it your will that we go our separate ways again and see each other no more? This time the decision rests upon you. God give you the wisdom to decide aright.”
I awaited her answer as a man might who had staked his all on the turn of a card.
She evidently was struggling with desire, and it was a question whether heart would come out victor, or reason.
The verdict must be given.
She took one step toward me.
I even opened my arms, and my heart beat tumultuously; but, alas, the hour was not yet come.
I saw her move back, one hand pressing against her heart; what would I not have given for light just then—light to reveal the love in her eyes!
“No, no, I could not trust you after this. And you might regret again. Morgan, I shall not take you from your—your pleasures. It is better we should part. Forget me, and be happy—as I—shall try—to be.”
She turned and left me, vanishing like a fair specter; but, although the verdict was against me, strange to say, I was not overwhelmed. Instead, I experienced a glow of animation, of holy fervor, so to speak; and leaning there over the rail in the spot hallowed by her recent presence, I made a vow that since I knew she loved me still, no obstacle on the whole earth should prevent me from capturing the citadel of her heart, and that the day and hour must soon come when, resting in my arms, she would look up into my eyes and tell me that in life or death she was mine forevermore.