The hours dragged along as Stafford faced the tragedy of his life. As

he paced the room or flung himself into a chair, with his head bowed in

his hands, the effects of the wine he had taken, the suppressed

excitement under which he had laboured, passed away, and in the

reaction his brain cleared and he began to realise the terrible import

of the step he had taken, the extent of the sacrifice he had made. His

own life was wrecked and ruined irreparably; not only his own, but that

of the girl he loved.

The step he had taken was not only irreparable but irrevocable; he

could not go back. He had asked Maude Falconer to be his wife, he had

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spoken words which must have sounded to her as words of love, he had

kissed her lips. In a word, he was pledged to her, and the pledge could

not be broken.

And Ida! What should he do in regard to her? He had promised that if

his feelings underwent any change towards her he would not go and tell

her. And at that moment, he felt that the promise had not been a vain

one; for he knew that he could not go to her, that at sight of her his

resolution would melt like snow in the sun, that his love for her would

sweep him away on a torrent of passion, and that he would be as false

to Maude Falconer as he had been to Ida.

And yet he could not leave her, desert her--yes, that was the

word!--without making some sign, without speaking one word, not of

excuse, but of farewell. What could he say to her? He could not tell

her the truth; for his father's sake that must never be divulged; he

could give her no explanation, must permit her to think him base and

faithless and dishonorable. There was only one thing he could do, and

that was to write to her. But what could he say?

He went to his writing-table and took up a pen. His hand was cold as

ice and shaking, and he held it before him until it grew steadier. At

the best of times, Stafford was not much of a letter-writer; one does

not learn the epistolatory art either at public schools or the

'varsities, and hitherto Stafford's letter-writing had been confined to

the sending or accepting of invitations, a short note about some meet,

or horse dealing. How was he to address her? She was his dearest still,

the only woman in the world he had loved or ever would love, but he

dared not call her so, dared not tell her so. He wrote her name, but

the sweet word seemed to look up at him reproachfully, accusingly; and

though he had written only that name, he tore up several sheets of

paper, and at last, in desperation, scarcely knowing what he was

writing, he wrote, quickly, hurriedly and without pausing, the

following lines: "I am writing this because you made me promise that if anything

happened, let it be what it might, to separate us, I would not come and

tell you. Something has happened. I have discovered that I am not only

unworthy of calling you mine as any man in the world, even the best,

would be, but that I am unworthy in the sense that would justify you in

the eyes of your father, of everybody belonging to you, in sending me

adrift. If I could tell you what it is you would understand and see how

great a gulf yawns between us. You would not marry me, I can never be

anything to you but a painful memory. Though you know how much I loved

you, you will never guess what it costs me to relinquish all claim to

you, to tear myself away from you. But I must do so--and forever. There

is no hope, none whatever, for me. I do not ask you to forgive me--if I

had known what I know now I would rather have died than have told you

that I loved you, but I do ask you to forget me; or, if you remember

me, to think of me as the most wretched and ill-fated of men; as one

who is bound hand and foot, and compelled, driven, along a path against

his will. I dare not say any more, dare not tell you what this

sacrifice costs me. Whether you forget or remember me, I shall never

forget you for a single instant, shall never cease to look back upon my

lost happiness, as a man looks back upon a lost heaven.




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