But what had he done to carry them out--those lofty wishes? Surely nothing. For, obsessed with his own selfish anguish, he had lived on with no single worthy aim, with no aim at all except to forget and deaden his suffering.
Forget! Ah God! that could never be. For had she not said there was an eternal marriage of their souls--in life or in death they could never be parted?
And he had tried to break this sacred tender bond, when he should have cherished every memory to comfort his deep pain with its sweetness. What had he done? Let sorrow sink him to the level of the poor gipsy girl, instead of trying to do some fine thing as a tribute to his lady's noble teaching.
He strode on in the dusk towards his home, his thoughts lashing him with shame and remorse.
And that night, when he and Pike were alone in his own panelled room, he broke the seal of those beautiful letters which, with directions for them to be buried with his body at his death, had lain in a packet hidden away from sight all these years, freighted with agonised memory.
He read them over carefully, from the first brief note to the last long cry of love which Dmitry had brought him to Paris. Then he lay back in his chair, while his strong frame shook with sobs, and his eyes were blinded by scorching, bitter tears.
But suddenly it seemed as if his lady's spirit stood beside him in the firelight's flickering gleam, whispering words of hope, pleading to come back from the cold grave to his heart, there to abide and comfort him.
He heard her golden voice once more, and it fell like soft, healing rain, so that he stretched out his arms, and cried aloud: "My darling, beloved one, forgive me for these five wasted years--sweetheart, come back to me never to part again. Come back to my heart, and dwell there, Angel Queen!"
* * * * * Then, as the days went on, all the world altered for him. Instead of the terrible bitterness against fate which had ruled his heart, a new tenderness grew there. It seemed now as though he were never alone, but lived in her ever-present memory. And with this golden change came thoughts of his child--that little life neglected for so long. What had he done? What cruel, terrible thing had he done in his selfish pain?
Each year Dmitry had sent him a letter of news, and each year that day had held ghastly hours for him in the reopening of old anguish--the missive to be read and quickly thrust out of sight, the thought of it to be strangled and forgotten.