“What did she leave here?” I asked then.
“Oh, just a few books and photographs, and small things that people bring with them,” was the reply. “Her relatives promised to send for them, but they never did, and I suppose I forgot them. They were not of any value.[147]”
The woman looked at me.
“I hope, you will not go away, sir,” she said. “It all happened a long time ago.
“Of course not,” I answered. “It interested me, that was all.”
And the woman went out, closing the door behind her.
So here was the explanation, if I am ready to accept it. I sat long that morning. And a day or two afterwards I made a discovery that confirmed all my thoughts.
In this same dusty book-case I found a diary with many letters and flowers. So I read the story I already knew.
This was a very old story. He was an artist… – is there a story of this type where the hero is not an artist? They were children together, they loved each other and did not know about that. One day it was revealed to them. These are the words from the diary:–
“May 18th. – I do not know what to say, or how to begin. Chris[148] loves me. He kissed my hands and clasped them round his neck. He was saying they were beautiful as the hands of a goddess, and he knelt and kissed them again. I am holding them before my eyes and kissing them myself. I am glad they are so beautiful. O God, why are you so good to me? Help me to be a true wife[149] to him. Help me love him better,” – and thus foolish thoughts for many pages, but these foolish thoughts keep this worn old world.
Later, in February, there are other words in the diary:–
“Chris left this morning. He put a little packet into my hands at the last moment, and he said it was the most precious thing he possessed. Of course I guessed what it was, but I did not open it till I was alone in my room. It is the picture of myself, but oh, so beautiful. I wonder if I am really as beautiful as this. I am kissing the little lips. I love them, because he loved to kiss them. Oh, sweetheart! it will be long before you kiss them again. Of course it was right for him to go, and I am glad he was able to do it. He could not study in this country place, and now he will be able to go to Paris and Rome and he will be great. Even the stupid people here see how clever he is. But, oh, it will be so long before I see him again, my love! my king!”
With each letter that comes from him, similar foolish words appeared. But his letters grow colder and fewer.
“March 12th. Six weeks and no letter from Chris, and, oh dear! I am so hungry for one, the last letter I kissed many times. I suppose he will write more often when he comes to London. He is working hard, I know, and I am selfish, but o God, help me, help me, whatever happens! How foolish I am tonight! He was always careless. I will punish him when he comes back, but not very much.”
Letters come from him after that, but apparently they are less and less satisfactory, because the diary becomes angry and bitter. Next words appear at the end of another year:–
“It is all over now.[150] I am glad it is finished. I wrote to him, I left him. Freedom is better for us. It is the best way. He did not ask me to release him, he was always gentle. Now he will be able to marry easily, and he will never know what I suffered. She is better for him than I am. I hope he will be happy. I think I have done the right thing.”
A few blank lines follow.
“Why do I lie to myself? I hate her! I want to kill her. I hope that she will make him unhappy, and that he will hate her as I do, and that she will die! Why did I send him that letter? He will show it to her, and she will laugh at me.
“I need him. I want him. I want his kisses and his arms. He is mine! He loved me once! I left him because I wanted to be the saint. Why do I deceive myself? I want him!”
And in the end. “My God, what am I saying? Have I no shame, no strength? O God, help me!”
And there the diary closes.
I looked among the letters between the pages of the book. Most of them were signed simply “Chris.” or “Christopher.” But one gave his name in full, and it was a name I know well. He is a famous man, I met him. I remember his handsome wife, and his great place, half house, half museum, in Kensington.[151] And I saw the sweet, sad face of the woman of the miniature, she smiled at me from out of the shadows.
I took the miniature from its shelf. I must know her name. So I stood with it in my hand till later my landlady entered to lay the cloth.
“I found this in your book-case,” I said, “when I was taking some books to read. It is someone I know, someone I have met, but I cannot remember where. Do you know who it is?”
The woman took it from my hand.
“I had lost it,” she answered. “It’s a portrait of myself, painted years ago, by a friend.”
I looked from her to the miniature, as she stood among the shadows, the lamplight was falling on her face, and saw her perhaps for the first time.
“How stupid of me,” I answered. «Yes, I see now.»
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