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
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.