235CHAPTER XXXI.REPENTING AT LEISURE.
Itwasjust three years since Irene had left her husband’s home. She lay upon her couch in her home at San Francisco. She had grown much older in appearance than she would have done had she led a different life, for late hours and careless exposure had brought on a hacking cough that not even the healthful climate of California could stay. She was so often left to pass her evenings alone when she did not feel able to go out, and while Max was enjoying himself at a game of billiards or cards. She grew very much dissatisfied, and often would express herself in tones of deepest disgust, when Max entered the house, and seldom in a very pleasant mood. At such times he would incivilly reply, quite unlike former days.
She had coughed so incessantly all through the evening that she was quite exhausted, and two bright spots were burning on her cheeks. The clock struck two, and still she waited.
“I wonder how he can enjoy staying away so late,” she said; “he is getting awfully selfish. He does not seem to care whether I live or die. They say all men236are that way; but I don’t know, I don’t believe Scott would ever have been like that. I wonder what made me think of him, I haven’t thought of him in so long. I suppose he has another wife before this. I wonder if he has. I wish I knew. Oh, dear, how my head aches, and that pain in my side is terrible. I wonder if Scott would have left me alone.”
She checked herself suddenly. What it was that had brought Scott to her mind she could not tell; but for some cause unknown to herself, he was continually coming before her, and his hazel eyes seemed to look in scornful pity on her in her loneliness. She heard Max enter the hall door, and the next moment he stood before her in a state of intoxication.
“Well,” he said, “you lazy thing, why don’t you go to bed?”
“I waited for you,” she said.
“What the deuce did you want to wait for me? You know I come when I get ready,” he said, dropping into a chair.
“Yes, I know you do, and I have no idea of wearing my life out watching for you, night after night.”
“Why don’t you go out yourself, then?”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“But you see I do, so there is the difference between you and me.”
“I am ill and I can’t go out and enjoy myself as you do.”
“So am I,” he said, with a sneering laugh.
“At any rate you seem to enjoy yourself, or you would not stay so long.”
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“Well, if I do, it’s my own business.”
“It is my business,” she said, angrily.
“I’d like to see you help yourself,” he said, turning fiercely toward her.
She burst into tears.
“You might stay with me when I’m ill,” she said. “I don’t like to stay alone; I get so nervous that I sometimes think I’m going to die.”
Max laughed boisterously, as he said:
“Oh, I guess there’s no danger of that. If you think there is you had better go back to that other man of yours. I’d rather have a live wife on my hands any day than a dead one, as I have no particular fancy for funerals; they create too much of a sensation.”
“Mercy, how you talk. I am sure I don’t want to die, but I don’t believe Scott would let me into the house if I were to go back to him.”
“Oh, yes, he would; he is one of those Christian fellows, you know. He would let you go back and run the Wilmer mansion, just as you used to, and then if you took a notion to run off with a handsomer man, he’d let you go and not even apply for a divorce. Say, do you know you are his wife just as much as you ever was?”
Irene started. She wondered what it was that had taken possession of Max to induce him to talk so harshly to her. It was true she knew he was under the influence of liquor, but he should have enough sense left to treat her as though she were human, even if he had made a brute of himself.
“Do you know,” he repeated, “that you are Scott Wilmer’s wife?”
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“No, I don’t know it,” she said, wiping the tears away. “I am your wife.”
“Where is your certificate?” he asked mockingly.
“You should know; you know what you promised.”
“Oh, well, promises don’t stand in law worth a cent.”
“I am sure that if Scott had promised anything it would have stood any law.”
“Oh, yes, but you see Scott is one of your Christian fellows; he wouldn’t lie to save his soul.”
“No, he would never break a promise. But what is the use of talking about him?” she asked, impatiently. “It is quite likely he is married before this time.”
“Oh, come, now, Rene, you know better than that; you know he never believed in divorces, and I’ll bet my head he is not married.”
“Well, I couldn’t go back there if I wanted to.”
“Try it.”
“You must want to get rid of me. What is the matter with you, Max?”
“Oh, nothing, only to tell you the truth, I know a little fairy who is crazy for me to make love to her, and she is one of the neatest little dancers in all the world.”
“Max,” cried Irene, angrily, “you are a perfect devil, and I wish I had never seen you. I wish I had never left Scott.”
A fresh burst of tears and a violent fit of coughing followed this outburst of anger, and Irene sank back exhausted on her pillow.
“I wish you never had left him,” Max said, wiping his bloodshot eyes, as he arose and started to leave the239room. “I am going to bed; you can spend the rest of the night there if you want to.”
“Oh, dear,” sobbed Irene, as she was left again to herself. “Oh, how I wish I had never left home. I think Max is too cross to live. He really abuses me, and after making so many promises, too. I wonder why I am not as much of an angel now as I used to be. Oh dear, oh dear. Perhaps Max will be better natured when he gets over his fit of drunkenness. If I were not so ill I would get even with him yet.”
Again the face of Scott Wilmer came before her, and the searching eyes seemed to look into hers with a gaze that burned down into her very soul.
“What a fool I am,” she said, as though angry at herself. “I can’t get back what I have thrown away, so I must think no more of Scott. I don’t intend to do much coaxing with Max either. If he is making love to some little fairy, as he calls her, I will follow him and find out who she is, and it will be a dear job for both of them. Curse him, what has he done; brought me out here, perhaps to die alone? Oh, I’ll curse them both if I find him playing false to me.”
She half arose from the couch, then sank back suddenly.
“Oh, oh, that pain in my side is awful. I wish Max would go for the doctor; but I wouldn’t dare to ask him, for he would only laugh at me, and he wouldn’t go.”
Irene drew a shawl about her shoulders and tried to sleep, but no sleep came to her until the morning dawned, then she sank into a light slumber.
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“Why, how pale you look, Miss Wilmer,” said Mary, touching her arm, “are you ill?”
“I coughed so hard all night that I am nearly dead.”
“I should think you was quite dead by the color of you. You had better get up and have a cup of coffee, or shall I bring it to you?”
“No. I would rather get up. Where is Max?”
“Asleep. He don’t want to get up yet; guess he’s cross by the way he ordered me to leave.”
“Let him sleep,” said Irene, as she arose with a languid air. She walked to the mirror, and looking in, she started at the sight of her own face, which was as pale as marble, and her eyes sunken and surrounded by great dark circles. Her hair twisted in an unbecoming knot at the back of her head seemed to add ten years to her life.
“Bring my false hair, Mary,” she said, “and see if you cannot make me look a little more respectable. I am a fright.”
“Oh, I shall have to lie down again. I am growing faint,” said Irene, as Mary started to arrange her hair.
“Mercy,” said Mary, as she helped her to the couch, “you look like a dead woman; you had better let me bring your coffee and toast in for you.”
Irene made no objection, and after Mary had bathed her face with camphor she brought her a tempting light breakfast, of which Irene forced herself to eat that she might have strength to arise, but for a number of days she was confined to her bed. Her cough, which was growing worse each day, had worn her to a mere shadow of her former self, and strive as she would to241appear cheerful, she could not hide the truth which was each day growing more and more apparent.
“I wish you would stay with me to-night, Max,” she said, one evening, as she lay upon the couch, “I want to tell you something.”
“I couldn’t think of it, my dear. I’ve got an engagement; but if it is anything of importance you may as well tell me all about it before I go.”
“You are very independent lately, but it may bring you down a little to have me tell you that father has been here, and says we’ve got to move. He has lost this house through his gambling, and we must go back to San Bernardino.”
“The devil!” said Max, with a frown.
“Yes, and there’s no telling what the next turn will be. He is losing money all the time. I should think it was about time you came in possession of your wealth.”
Max, looking down at the floor, said:
“Don’t trouble yourself about my fortune, just look out for your own.”
“There won’t be any of my own to trouble myself about, if you and my father have the handling of it.”
“We’ll talk about that some other time,” said Max, as he left the house, without even a good bye to the woman he called his wife.
“Where are you going?” Irene called out, as he passed through the doorway.
“That is my business,” he replied, angrily.
“It will be mine, too,” she said, as she arose, trembling with rage.
It was her intention to follow Max, but when she tried242to put on her wrap she found herself unable to do so, sinking back upon the couch.
“I will not bear it, so help me, heaven. He shall not treat me so, leaving me ill and alone. I will follow him,” she said, trying again to arise, but was prostrated by a deathly faintness which followed her effort.
“Mary,” she called.
Mary came hurrying in.
“What is it?” she asked in alarm.
“I want you to bring me a cup of strong tea—no, a good brandy sling will be better, I am really chilly.”
Mary brought the brandy.
“I wanted to go out, but when I tried to get ready I found I could not stand, and if I fail after this brandy has warmed me up I want you to do the errand for me.”
“What is it?”
“I want you to hurry down town and see if you can see where Max has gone.”
“Why,” said Mary, “I can’t leave you alone.”
“Go on, I say. I can take care of myself,” Irene said angrily, at the same time making another effort to arise, but this time sinking back in a dead faint.
“Oh! oh! Such a time as I do have with her, she so fretful,” said Mary. “I do wonder what has come between those two anyway; they quarrel all the time lately, and she so sick, too. Oh, dear, I wonder if she’s going to die?”
“No,” said Irene, as she slowly opened her eyes. “I won’t die. No, that would please him too well. He would be glad to come and find me dead, but I won’t die, I won’t die.”
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“Why, how you talk; of course your husband don’t want you to die. Please lie down. You will get crazy if you talk in that way.”
“Has Max come yet?” she asked, when in the morning she awoke and found Mary sitting near her.
“No; but I think he will be here by breakfast time,” said Mary.
A cold fear shot through Irene’s heart.
The day passed, and still another, and Max did not come. Irene was growing extremely nervous. With constant watching and wishing she at last gave up in despair. She sent a message to her father, but at the end of a week she had received no word from him, and, lying there alone and unable to lift her head from her pillow, seemingly deserted by her father and the man who “could not live without her,” Irene Wilmer gave herself up to the bitterest reflections. She wept until the fountain of tears was entirely exhausted. She cursed the day that Max Brunswick ever crossed her path, to take her away from her home and a husband who would never have spoken a harsh word to her. She could look back now and see all that she had lost. She could see, now that disease had laid hold of her and held her down with hands which could not be defied, that she had lost the whole world. She tried to picture something brighter than the dark cloud she saw. She tried to fancy herself back in Scott’s home, and that she was living there an honored wife. Amid her vain fancies she fell asleep. She saw herself on a broad sea of deep and muddy waters, tossed up and down on the angry waves, and Scott standing with folded arms upon244a high and massive rock above. How like a god he seemed to her, as he stood there with his fine manly form outlined against the blue sky above, his auburn locks lifted from his noble brow by the breeze, and his searching eyes gazing down upon her. She reached out her hands, and called upon him to save her, but he closed his lips firmly, and still retaining his rigid position, he gazed at her as she floated away and went sinking down, down, down.
“Oh, Scott,” she moaned, as she sank below the surface, “save me, save me.”
“Why, who in the world are you calling for?” asked Mary. “Who is Scott? Why you must have been awfully choked, for you gasped two or three times as though you could hardly breathe.”
“I had a terrible dream, and I have such pain in my chest too.”
“I believe I’ll go for the doctor,” said Mary.
“Yes, for I don’t see that I shall ever get better unless I have some medicine. Bring my purse.”
Mary did as directed, and when Irene had opened it she uttered a cry:
“Oh, the wretch, to think that he could do that.”
“What is it?” Mary asked.
“He has taken nearly all my money, and there is but fifty dollars left. Oh, what in heaven’s name will become of me?”
“Let me bring the doctor at any rate,” said Mary.
“Yes, go; I must have something to help me up. I shall go wild to lie here another day.”
Mary called the physician.
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“Do you think I am going to die?” Irene asked abruptly.
The doctor looked at her a moment in silence.
“I want to know just what you think. If you think I won’t get well, I want to know it, and I want you to tell me what is the matter.”
“You have consumption.”
“Oh, don’t tell me that,” she said in a trembling voice.
“You ordered me to tell you the truth.”
“Yes, I know. How soon do you think I will die?”
“That, madam, is only a question of time. Your disease has passed the aid of human skill, and you may as well know the worst, if you have any business to attend to. Consumption is very flattering, and it is quite impossible to determine when the disease will meet with a change. You may live a year and you may not.”
“Tell me truly; do you think I will not live long?”
“I cannot really tell,” the doctor said evasively. “I think your time is short.”
“Will I never get up again?”
“Yes, I may strengthen you and alleviate your pain.”
“So I must die,” Irene said, as the physician, after having prepared her medicine,lefther. “Oh, dear, it’s awful to die; I wish I could live, but if I must die I wish I were back with Scott. I am sure he never would have left me alone, as I am now. He would have tried to make it pleasant for me. I wonder if he would let me go back there. Oh, it makes me shudder to think of dying out here alone; it doesn’t seem as though I could. I believe I could die easier if I could get back to Scott.246But, oh, I am afraid he never would speak to me again. How I wish I had never left him; and now Max has gone too; left me as I left Scott.”
She tried to think that Max would yet return, but she thought over all the cruel things he had said on that evening that he left her, and she could see no reason why he should stay so long if he ever intended to come back, and then the fact of his having taken the money was conclusive evidence of his remaining away. She wondered why it was that her mind turned so often toward Scott. She had very often thought of him and his kind acts since her sickness. She knew that she had no right to think of him, but the more she thought, the more she longed to see him, and to be in the home which she had deserted, and ere another week had gone by she had resolved to go to him, and perhaps in his generosity he would take her back to die at home.
“I think I am getting better, Mary,” Irene said a few weeks after her interview with the doctor, “I mean to break up housekeeping and go East.”
“Why, you ain’t able to travel,” said Mary.
“Yes, I am, I’ve got friends there who will not see me suffer. My father has never been to see me since Max went away, although I have sent him word at least a dozen times. I shall get enough for my household goods to take me to New York. I can hardly tell what to do, and I am too sick to live here alone.”
“But if you should take cold traveling it might be your death.”
“Oh, I shall die anyway, and I would rather die there than here,” Irene said.
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“Perhaps you will get well if you don’t expose yourself.”
“No, I won’t, I shall die, and it is better to die with some one who will treat me well,” she said mournfully.
“Yes, if you have friends it is better to be with them,” said Mary.
After another week of anxiety Irene was ready to return to New York. She had heard nothing from Max or her father. She saw but one way open to her, and that was to go to Scott and ask his forgiveness. She did not know that he would grant it, but she would tell him how ill she was, and perhaps he would not turn her away.
248CHAPTER XXXII.A BITTER ATONEMENT.
Night had fallen over the great city. The snow was falling fast, and the wind blowing with a fury that drove pedestrians on at a rapid pace. Among the many who thronged the streets was a woman ascending with slow and uneven steps the broad marble steps that led to the home of Scott Wilmer. She was closely veiled and dressed in black, and as she reached out to ring the door bell her hand shook with the cold. The great hall door opened in answer to the clear ring of the bell, and the woman was invited to enter. How bright and warm it seemed as she stepped on the soft carpet, after her wearisome walk through the snow.
“What can I do for you?” asked the boy who stood in waiting.
He had been taught to address all strangers in a polite manner, even though they were plainly dressed.
“Is Mr. Wilmer at home?” the woman asked in a faint voice.
“He is; do you wish to see him?”
“Yes, please tell him that a lady would like to see him alone.”
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“Some one in trouble, I suppose,” thought Scott, as the boy went to him with the message. “Bring the woman in,” he said.
“You may see him,” the boy said, “come this way, madam.” Then the door closed after her, and she stood trembling in Scott’s presence. He placed an easy-chair, and she sank wearily on its cushions.
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yes, there is a great deal if you will,” she said as she raised her veil.
She was trembling in every limb, and her lips had grown so stiff and white that she could scarcely speak, but she gasped at last after a mighty effort:
“Scott, don’t you know me?”
“Great God, Irene, is it you?”
“Yes, may I come home again?”
“Home! Irene, do you call this home? Your home should be with the husband of your choice—the man you love.”
“Oh, Scott, don’t be cruel. I have come back to ask your forgiveness.”
“My forgiveness?” Scott repeated bitterly.
“Yes, I have found how noble, and how much better than other men you are.”
“I am very sorry,” he said, with a hard, cold expression, “that you have found the goodness of my character when it is too late to answer your purpose.”
“Scott! Don’t you know me?”
“Scott! Don’t you know me?”
“Oh, Scott, my husband, do not turn me away; can you not forgive me?”
“Yes, Irene, I will try to forgive you.”
“And you will?” she said, starting to arise.
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“I will forgive you all the wrong you have ever done me.”
“And you will take me home again?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Scott, I wish I had known how good you were.”
“I am very sorry for you.”
“And, Scott, will you love me again?”
“Never.”
“Can’t you take me back? Don’t you see how I have suffered?”
“Sin brings its own punishment, and your sin has brought you yours. I cannot undo the past, neither can you. I said I would forgive you, and I will.”
“What is your forgiveness without your love? Don’t you see that I never would have come back to you if I had not been forced to do so.”
“I suppose you would not; but let me ask you what you have done with the man you loved—your affinity?”
“He has gone, left me alone.”
“Then his love was not as deep and lasting as you fancied it would be.”
A burning blush came over the pale face.
“Oh, Scott, it was a great mistake.”
“But you will see for yourself that it was the one great mistake of our lives,” Scott said, repeating the sentence conveyed to him in Irene’s letter.
“Then you will not give me a home?”
“Yes, as long as I have a home you may share it.”
“I cannot understand you.”
Scott arose, and, standing before Irene with folded arms and compressed lips, she saw him again just as she251had seen him in her dream, and so vividly was its terrors recalled, that a cry escaped her lips.
“Irene Wilmer,” he said, “for such you are still, listen to me. The time was when I loved you—when I laid my whole soul at your feet. It was not, perhaps, with vain and foolish words of flattery that I won you, but I gave you the free and undivided love of an honest heart. You were fond of flattery, and in your vanity you were led to believe that another loved you better than I, and the man you should have spurned as you would the vilest of reptiles, was taken to your heart as though he were a king.”
Irene closed her hands convulsively.
“You trampled upon the love I gave you, and, lured on to ruin by the wiles of a vain and hollow hearted fop, you spurned my love as though it were a worthless toy, while he, with his soft and senseless words of pretended love, caused you to cast aside that most sacred and ennobling of all a woman may possess—your honor.”
Irene bowed her head upon the table beside her, as she said in a low voice:
“Stop.”
“No, hear me through. I tried to keep you from sinning. I did all that man could do to stop your downward course, but you answered me only with sneering words, and when I asked you to give up the attentions of a man who had no right to your affections, you called me cruel and unfeeling, and the world looked in scorn upon my misery. You had no pity, and when I knew of your disgrace, I thought I should go mad. Day by252day my love for you died away. Not because I had grown tired of your presence, but because you had grown tired of mine, and without respect I could not love. Another supplanted me in your affections, but still I tried to do my duty. You were bound to me by the laws of God and man, and never, until you of your own free will severed our lives, did I for one moment entertain the thought of casting you off.”
“But I have suffered so much, and I come back to you asking your forgiveness.”
“That I have freely granted. My home is yours while you desire it; and every comfort that you may ask shall be yours. No wish shall be denied, but my love for you, Irene, is dead.”
She threw aside her bonnet, and clasping her hands, and falling upon her knees before him, she cried out:
“Oh, Scott, is there no way that I can bury the past, and regain the love that I have lost?”
“None,” he answered firmly. “No, do not touch me. It is asking a great deal, Irene, and I am only human. How can you expect me to forget the sorrows which you have caused me? You come back to me a woman wrecked in body and soul, and you ask me to give again the love that you trampled to the dust.”
“Oh, I did not know how much I was throwing away.”
“You have learned it, then, when it is too late, and repentance comes when there is no chance for redress. Your home is here while you wish to remain. Try and be content if you can, but let us meet as strangers.253When this interview is ended there is but one word to say.”
“What is that?” she asked hurriedly.
“Farewell!”
“I shall have to die all alone, without even your voice to go with me down to the dark grave. Oh, God, it’s terrible to die.”
“There is but One who can go with you to lighten the darkness of the grave, Irene; to Him you must look for comfort. I am neither good nor wise enough to teach you how to go.”
“Scott, will you promise me one favor?”
“If you will be seated you may talk further; you are growing tired.”
“Yes, I am tired,” she said, while her cheeks burned with excitement, “and if you will grant me one favor I will leave you.”
“If it is my power to do so.”
“It is that when I die you will sit beside me and watch me go out of life, and that you will give me just one good bye kiss—only one.”
“I will promise to try,” he said.
“Good bye,” she said, as she arose, trembling in every limb.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Anywhere, out in the world, to die.”
“No, you must not go away. Be seated, and I will see that you have a room prepared.”
The old look was upon his face which she had seen so often—the look which compelled her to obey, without the uttering of an unkind word, or even a command,254and he left her sitting where the soft glow of the gas light fell upon her white, wan features.
He sought his mother and June.
“Mother,” he said, “Irene has returned.”
June sprang to her feet.
“Scott,” she said, “did you allow her to come in this house?”
“I did.”
“You are crazy!”
“I think I have my reason,” he said.
“You surely do not think of allowing her to remain?”
“Yes, as long as she lives.”
In all June’s life she had never shown as much indignation as then.
“Scott,” she said, “if she remains I shall leave the house.”
Scott did not speak.
“You told me once, you remember, that not even a wife should separate you and your sister, and now you will allow a low, degraded woman, who is not your wife, and has no claim on you, to again disgrace our home.”
“Hush, June, you do not exactly understand the situation. When you understand the matter you will think as I do.”
“I do not see how you can love her again.”
“I have only pity for her, June.”
“Why does she come to you for pity?”
“As a last resort.”
“Scott, I do not see how you can have the patience to allow her to remain.”
“My good little sister, you never had the heart to turn255any one away who was in distress. Irene is ill, and were you to see her you would pity her as I do.”
“Perhaps I would,” said June, “but I never want to look on her face again, she has caused us so much trouble.”
“That is true,” said Scott, “but it should not debar us from doing our duty.”
June could not see that it was their duty to help a woman who had brought so much misery to their home, and wrecked the life of her noble brother, but she knew upon a moment’s reflection that Scott was right, and she concluded that she must be lacking in charity. She stood for a moment in deep thought, and then stepping to Scott’s side, and laying her hand on his arm, she said:
“Scott, I did not wish to wound you, and I am sorry if I have done so, and whatever you think best I will try to do, but, ah, I never can love Irene or call her my sister again.”
“I neither ask nor expect it, but it is our duty to care for her while she lives, and the most painful duty of life is often the most necessary to perform. I have neither love nor respect for the false woman who has come to me for shelter, but, God helping me, I will try to do my duty, whatever it may be, and if it be necessary for me to battle with the scoffs of the world in order to do my duty, my strength shall be sufficient to enable me to bear it.”
“Oh, mother,” said June, “it seems to me that if there is a just God He will find some way to remove the cause of my noble brother’s sorrow.”
“June,” said Scott, “there is but one way. Do not256even think about that. Come, Irene is very tired, and it is quite necessary that you attend to her wants by giving her every attention. Give her the room she used to have, and let her retire.”
June followed Scott to his room, where she found Irene waiting.
“Dear June,” she said as she started forward, as though to embrace her, but a look from Scott checked the movement.
“Irene,” said Scott, “please bear in mind that you are a Wilmer only in name, and June is acting only from a sense of duty.”
“Mrs. Wilmer,” June said, in a voice as formal as though she were speaking to a stranger, “my brother has requested me to show you to your room. Will you come?”
“Oh, June,” Irene sobbed, as she arose to her feet, and stood trembling before her; “you used to be so good to me; can’t you forgive me, either?”
“Irene,” she said, “I can be kind to you still, and I can do all that my noble brother requests me to do for you, but I never can overlook the terrible wrong you have done him. If he asks me to bring you a cup of cold water I can do it willingly, but I cannot say that I forgive you when I do not. I cannot be a hypocrite even for Scott. I do pity you, and will do all I can for you, butI cannot say that I forgive you.”
She led Irene to her room—the same that she had occupied before she left their home, then she arranged the pillows, and turning down the snowy spread, bade Irene good-night, and left her to her own reflections.
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“This is my reception. I know I have no right here, but I did think that June and mama would forgive me if Scott did not,” Irene said as she slowly undressed herself. “June was always so tender hearted. I thought perhaps Scott might take me back, for some men will forgive anything for a beautiful face, but,” she added, as she glanced in the tall mirror before her, “my beauty is fading; oh, dear, and I have lost it all through my own foolishness; and now I know that I might as well give up all hope of ever being loved by Scott again, for the look that he gave me meant even more than the words he uttered, though they were decided enough, Heaven knows, and there is no hope for me here—only to have a shelter. It is strange that my father acts as he does; but, oh, dear, I could neither live nor die with him. Well, I may as well make up my mind that there is nothing left for me but to lie here and die. Oh, God, how I dread it. I wish I could put it off a few years, but, oh, I can’t. I must meet it. Oh, I could curse the man who brought me to this. After all, it was my own foolishness.”
“Paul, Paul,” she heard a voice calling.
“Come, Bob,” said June, “Paul is not here; it is time to go to bed, too. What has started you to calling his name?”
Rene listened as the voice grew fainter; it kept calling: “Paul, Paul.”
“I would like to see Bob,” said Irene. “I wonder if he would not forgive me, either.”
Irene had come home to die, and when the fact became known to the family that she was suffering,258nothing was left undone that could add to her comfort. There was nothing that Scott might think she desired that was not ordered at once. He sent to her room the choicest of flowers and the finest fruits that were to be found; he sent books that he knew she had admired, and he employed a noted physician whom he urged to use his best endeavors to bring her back to health, but he never entered her room. June and Mrs. Wilmer often sat by her bed, and read to her, to cheer her lonely hours, but there never was a word sent from Scott. It was his custom to inquire after her condition each day, and that was all that he ever spoke of her. Thus the time wore on, bringing Irene Wilmer nearer the grave. There were many beautiful bouquets sent to her room and when she would inquire who remembered her in that way, the reply invariably was Scott or Miss Elsworth, the authoress, whom she had met years before at a summer resort. Indeed, every one else, who knew of her return, took not the slightest notice of her home coming, and those who were aware of the fact wondered that Scott would be foolish enough to take her back.
Irene thought that such a noted woman as Miss Elsworth was becoming, must be very kind to think of a sick person like her, but she was foolish enough to think that the sole reason was because she was a Wilmer, though she did not know how she could have known anything about her, but concluded it was all owing to Scott’s riches, that Miss Elsworth had sought her out. She told June she would like so much to see Miss Elsworth, and after many entreaties, June pacified her by259saying that she would have Guy find a way, which he did. Miss Elsworth came and Irene requested that she might see her entirely alone, which request was granted.
“I knew you must be good,” Rene said, “or you would never have taken the trouble to send me such beautiful flowers. I wanted to tell you how lonely I am. You know, my husband, that is Scott, never comes in the room. He has never been here since I was ill.”
“Your husband does not visit you?” said Miss Elsworth in surprise. “How sad.”
“Well, I suppose it is all right, for, of course, you have heard of—my leaving him.”
“Yes,” Miss Elsworth replied.
“I was sure you would not speak of my foolishness, but I did not know how good Scott was until it was too late to repent. I know, now, he is one of the best men in all the world, or he never would have given me a place to die in. I don’t deserve it, and I know I won’t want it very long, but some men would never have allowed me to enter the house. I am sorry, oh, so sorry, that I did not know how good he was; I might now have been well and happy.”
“Perhaps you will recover,” said Miss Elsworth, cheerfully.
“Oh, no, I shall die, and the time is not far off,” said Rene, mournfully. “I hope he will find a woman who will love him, and be better to him than I have been, for you cannot begin to think how kind he is. I never knew until I saw how he repaid me for my wickedness.”
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“Do not be disheartened; you may be happy yet.”
“Why,” she said, impatiently, “don’t I tell you I am going to die? The doctor says so, and the only thing to do is to get ready for it when it comes, but oh, how I dread it. It must be awful to die and not know what you are going to.”
“Yes, that is the most terrible part of all.”
“I know by some of your books that you must be a good Christian.”
“Oh, no, I am not a good Christian, but I try to live up to the commandments and the golden rule.”
“I wish I could be like Scott’s father; he wasn’t a bit afraid to die.”
“Perhaps he led a Christian life.”
“Oh, yes, he did; he was good to everybody, but I have been very wicked. I don’t see how I can help it now.”
“You cannot undo what has been done, but you can do better in future.”
“The future? Why, there is no future for me but the grave.”
Irene, like every other coward at heart, surrendered only when she saw danger staring her in the face. Had her health been given her she would have spared neither pains nor expense to have revenge on Max, but since disease had chained her down, and there was no escape from the destroyer, she began, like the condemned criminal, to confess her guilt as the only means of obtaining mercy.
Two months later Irene lay dying. She had asked to see her husband, and he had granted the request.261She wanted him all alone that she might ask his forgiveness. He visited her for the first time since her return, and she had spoken words in confession that made even the strong heart of Scott almost cease its beating.
“Irene,” Scott said, “is it possible that all you have told me is true? Can it be true?”
“It is, and I am sorry I deceived you,” she said, while the thin white hands reached out toward him. “Oh, Scott, if you will forgive me.”
“Irene, you have wronged me most bitterly, and I forgive you, but remember that man’s forgiveness can avail you nothing in the darkness where you are going. You must look to God. He alone can forgive your sins and lead you through the dark valleys to the light of eternal day.”
“And you will, with your own hands, plant just one flower on my grave in remembrance of her you once called your wife.”
“I will,” said Scott, and then he turned away with a face full of agony.
Three days later the family was summoned to watch Irene pass the gates of death, and then the false heart was stilled forever. They robed her in a costly shroud and placed her in a beautiful casket, and in death as in life she was lovely to look upon, and Scott, with compressed lips and tearless eyes, followed her to the grave as chief mourner.