That I should address you at all is an insult, but my cowardly weakness when we were last together makes it a greater insult for me to keep silence now. I have waited until you were quite recovered before giving you this, for I know that it will give you pain—and that itwillgive you pain is at once my greatest curse and my greatest joy. That I should have dared to love you is despicable, but that I should have allowed you to give me even one tender thought in return is dastardly—and yet, nothing in heaven or hell can take from me the ecstasy of that one moment when your dear lips met mine!Forgive me—think kindly of me if you can, for—God help me—I am going away, never to look on your face again. I was a boy of twenty when I committed the sin against God and man that has made my life a thing of horror. For years I have sought for peace; adventure, work, wealth, philanthropy—each alike has failed to bring it. I am going now to my boyhood’s home to receive my just punishment.Ah, Ethel, Ethel, my lost love—what can I say to you? I have but words—words—empty words! I can see the horror in your dear eyes. I am not worthy of even the thought of you, and yet, my darling, oh, my darling, were it not for this dread shadow on my life, I swear I would win you for my darling in very truth!But now—God help me—farewell!
That I should address you at all is an insult, but my cowardly weakness when we were last together makes it a greater insult for me to keep silence now. I have waited until you were quite recovered before giving you this, for I know that it will give you pain—and that itwillgive you pain is at once my greatest curse and my greatest joy. That I should have dared to love you is despicable, but that I should have allowed you to give me even one tender thought in return is dastardly—and yet, nothing in heaven or hell can take from me the ecstasy of that one moment when your dear lips met mine!
Forgive me—think kindly of me if you can, for—God help me—I am going away, never to look on your face again. I was a boy of twenty when I committed the sin against God and man that has made my life a thing of horror. For years I have sought for peace; adventure, work, wealth, philanthropy—each alike has failed to bring it. I am going now to my boyhood’s home to receive my just punishment.
Ah, Ethel, Ethel, my lost love—what can I say to you? I have but words—words—empty words! I can see the horror in your dear eyes. I am not worthy of even the thought of you, and yet, my darling, oh, my darling, were it not for this dread shadow on my life, I swear I would win you for my darling in very truth!
But now—God help me—farewell!
There was no name signed, but this Ethel did not notice until she had read the note three times with her tear-dimmed eyes; then she whispered:
“Poor fellow! He could not sign ‘Westbrook’ and he would not sign—the other.”
Much to John Barrington’s amazement, his daughter insisted upon going to town on the noon train that day. In response to his persistent objections she assured him that she felt “perfectly well and quite equal to a journey around the world, if necessary.”
At four o’clock Lawyer Martin was surprised by an urgent note summoning him to the Barringtons’ Dalton residence on Howard Avenue. Half an hour afterward he was ushered into the presence of Miss Barrington herself.
The interview was short, sharp and straight to the point. A few hours later Miss Barrington and her maid boarded the eight o’clock express for the East.
Twenty-four hours passed after Westbrook had sent his letter to Miss Barrington before he could so arrange his affairs as to start for the little New England village of his boyhood. All day and all night he had worked with feverish haste, and the time had flown on wings of the wind; now, when he was at last on the morning “Limited,” the hours seemed to drag as though weighted with lead.
He could see it all—the proud new name he had made for himself dragged low in the dust. He knew just how society would wonder and surmise; just how the maneuvering mamas would shake their skirts in virtuous indignation and how the doting papas would nod their heads in congratulation over a miraculous escape.
He knew how the poor and friendless in the great city would first deny the charge, then weep over the truth. He knew, too, the look that would come to the faces of the miners, and he winced at even the thought of this—HustlerJoe had prized his place in the hearts of his miner friends.
There was one on whom he dared not let his thoughts rest for a moment; yet it was that one’s face which seemed ever before his eyes, and it was that one’s voice which constantly rang in his ears.
Again the sun had set and it was twilight in the little New England village. The street had not changed much—the houses were grayer and the trees taller, perhaps.
As he neared the familiar gate, he saw in the window the face of a silver-haired woman. Was that his mother—his dearly beloved mother of long ago? She turned her head and he was answered.
After all, would it not be better to pass on and away again, rather than to bow that gray head once more in grief and shame?
His steps lagged and he almost passed the gate. Then he drew a long breath, turned sharply, strode up the path and pulled the bell.
The sweet-faced woman opened the door. The man’s dry lips parted, but no sound came, for from an inner room advanced Ethel Barrington with a gray-haired man whose kindly face wore a strangely familiar smile.
“What is it, wife? Is it—Paul?” he asked in tremulous tones.
It was long hours afterward that Paul Joseph Weston sat with Ethel alone in the library.
“But yourself, dear—you have not told me yet how you came to be here,” he said.
She laughed softly.
“Rash boy! Was there not need of someone’s preparing your father and mother for so wonderful a home-coming? I found out by judicious inquiry that you had not yet left the city, so I knew, when I took the train, that I had at least a few hours’ start of you.”
“But how—what—how could you, dear? Surely I didn’t tell——”
Again she laughed, but this time she dimpled into a rosy blush.
“When your very disquieting letter came, sir, I remembered something Mr. Martin had once said to me. I went to town, sent for Mr. Martin and insisted upon his telling me all that he knew of—your youth.”
“And that was?”
“That he believed you to be Paul Weston, who had quarreled with his father and run away after apparently killing the poor gentleman. Mr. Martin said that the father did not die, but slowly recovered from his wound and made every possible effort to find his son, even sending Martin himself to seek for him. Once Martin traced the boy to a mining camp, but there he lost the trail and never regained it until he thought he saw Paul Weston’s features in Joseph Westbrook’s face.”
“Ethel, what did Martin first tell you of me that caused you to go to him for aid?”
“He hinted that you were a—ah, don’t make me say it, please!”
The man’s face grew stern.
“And he knew all the time it was false!” he cried.
She put a soft finger on his tense lips.
“We just won’t think of him—and really, I’ve forgiven him long ago, for it was he that helped me in the end, you know. Besides, he acknowledged that he didn’t really suppose you were Paul Weston. I—I fancy he didn’t want me to think too highly of this interesting Mr. Joseph Westbrook!” she added saucily.
The arm that held her tightened its clasp.
“He needn’t have worried,” she continued, with uptilted chin. “I shall never, never marry Mr. Joseph Westbrook!”
“Ethel!”
“But if Hustler Joe or Paul Weston should ask——”
Her lips were silenced by a kiss and a fervent, “You little fraud of a sweetheart!”
InterludesTHE rich man speaks about how he spends his money, while his friends speak about how he made it.You could tell the old-time hero by his medals; the modern one is known by his collection of loving-cups.The spendthrift sometimes does more good with his money than the philanthropist.The fact that figures won’t lie probably accounts for the invention of statistics.A political job differs from any other kind, inasmuch as you work before you get it, instead of afterward.The miser holds on to his own money; the millionaire to other people’s.His Cogitation“WELL, then, amongst others, there’s the man who habitually talks to himself,” ruminatingly said the Pruntytown Philosopher the other evening. “If he does it in order to listen to himself, he is a fool; if he does it to avoid listening to his friends, he is a sage; and if he does it to save his friends from listening to him, he is a philanthropist.”The Safe SideREPORTER—Were you quoted correctly in that interview in the morning papers?Senator—Come around the day after tomorrow. How can I tell until I see how the interview is going to be taken?An Inference“MY wife and I have lived happily together for twenty-five years.”“Now, tell me, old fellow—in confidence, of course—which one of you has had the other bluffed all this time?”
Interludes
THE rich man speaks about how he spends his money, while his friends speak about how he made it.
You could tell the old-time hero by his medals; the modern one is known by his collection of loving-cups.
The spendthrift sometimes does more good with his money than the philanthropist.
The fact that figures won’t lie probably accounts for the invention of statistics.
A political job differs from any other kind, inasmuch as you work before you get it, instead of afterward.
The miser holds on to his own money; the millionaire to other people’s.
His Cogitation
“WELL, then, amongst others, there’s the man who habitually talks to himself,” ruminatingly said the Pruntytown Philosopher the other evening. “If he does it in order to listen to himself, he is a fool; if he does it to avoid listening to his friends, he is a sage; and if he does it to save his friends from listening to him, he is a philanthropist.”
The Safe Side
REPORTER—Were you quoted correctly in that interview in the morning papers?
Senator—Come around the day after tomorrow. How can I tell until I see how the interview is going to be taken?
An Inference
“MY wife and I have lived happily together for twenty-five years.”
“Now, tell me, old fellow—in confidence, of course—which one of you has had the other bluffed all this time?”