Part 5

“Are you?” he said, and, standing where he was, he held out his arms. In a second she had flown to them, and the great man had lifted her off her feet and caught her to his breast and held her there. She clung with both arms around his neck, and laid her face in the hollow of his throat. For a few seconds neither spoke, and then he put her down, still holding one of her hands, and led her so across the room.

“So you are glad to see me, Mim!” he said, standing on the hearth-rug, and taking her little face between his large, beautiful hands.

“I worship you,” she said, looking up at him, through two big tears.

“So you’re just as big a goose as ever!” he said, almost in a whisper, still holding her so and looking down at her. “I suppose I ought to be sorry, but do you think I am? Well, I’m not. I’m glad!” Impossible to describe the winning charm of this man’s manner, or the tender beauty of his face as he said this. “But stand off and let me look at you,” he went on, loosing her face to take her two hands and hold her at arm’s length by them. “Who said you were losing your beauty? It’s not so. You’re absolutely bewitching. I doubt--now I’m going to tell you something that will make you happy for a year--I seriously doubt, upon my word of honor, whether any one else in the world is so pretty.”

She smiled until her cheeks dimpled, but the next moment the tears had sprung to her eyes.

“What does it matter,” she said, “if you don’t care?”

“Don’t I, though? I can tell you I do care tremendously. Do you suppose, after all that’s been between you and me, that I shall lose interest in you and never care what happens to you in the future?”

“But if we never see each other----”

“Yes, I know,” he said hurriedly. “That’s pretty hard, poor baby! But don’t think, in spite of all that’s happened, don’t think I’m not sorry for you. Sometimes, when I think about how unhappy and lonely you are, it drives me wild. I have to go to the theatre, or play polo, or do something to make me forget it. There’s one thought that always consoles me, however, and that is that you’ll be well rid of such a scamp as I am. I’ve been a brute to you, Mimi, and one thing that brought me here was to ask you to forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Bertie; I’ve never had one hard feeling toward you,” she answered in a low and resolutely steadied voice.

“That’s because you’re an angel on earth, not because I haven’t treated you abominably. I know it and confess it freely, but I hate to think about it.”

“Then don’t think about it, our last evening together.”

The words almost choked her, and he saw her throat swell; he saw, too, that she was making a tremendous effort not to cry. They had sat down in two chairs in front of the fire, and were looking away from each other. After a short silence the man turned toward her, compelling her, by his persistent gaze, to turn her eyes to his. Then he said:

“It isn’t natural for us to sit together like this. You used to--” He smiled and laid his hand on his knee. She came at once and took the seat, and when she had done so, he lifted one of her arms and laid it around his neck. Then he laughed--a low laugh of appreciative amusement.

“I’m sure I don’t know whether this is proper or not,” he said, “and I suppose you can’t inform me. By Jove, this _is_ a situation! Come, Mim, I always said you had no sense of humor, but you can’t help seeing the fun of this!”

The poor child tried her best to smile, but perhaps his accusation of her was not unjust, for the effect was a complete failure, and she had to hide her face against his neck to conceal the fact that tears had come instead of smiles.

“Don’t try to make me laugh,” she said; “if you do, I’m sure to cry, and I do not want to do that. It always made you angry to see me cry.”

“All right, then, we won’t laugh or cry either. We’ll just be sensible, and you’ll show me what a little brick you really are. You’ve acted in a way already to win a tremendous respect from me. You can just remember that. I don’t know another woman who’d have behaved as well. And, now, let me show you something. Don’t move, it’s just here in my pocket. I had such a sweet idea the other day. You see,” he went on, as she sat up to look, “I knew you’d feel badly about leaving off the ring, when--when the time comes, so I’ve got you another--not plain gold, of course, but one you can always wear, in place of it, for my sake. Isn’t it a little beauty?” He opened his hand and showed her a ring set with two very perfect pearls, one white and one black.

“The white’s for you, and the black’s for me,” he said, laughing, as he slipped it on her finger. “I knew it would fit,” he went on, “for _I_ knew what a mite of a hand it was for! The man thought it was for a child.”

“Oh, how dear, how lovely, how beautiful it is!” said Mimi. “How good you were to think of it! But, Bertie--” She hesitated a moment, and then said: “You won’t be vexed if I ask you something, will you?”

“I don’t know,” he said, with a slight frown. “I don’t like questions.”

“Oh, I know that--and I’m not going to inquire into anything! You needn’t be afraid of that. All I want is to know whether--when the time comes--I’ll be obliged to take off my wedding-ring? Couldn’t I wear it still?”

She looked into his face with the most earnest beseeching, and evidently with intense anxiety as to his reply.

“Oh, I suppose you could--if you wanted to! I don’t see why not. I never heard of anyone’s doing it, but of course you can keep it on, if it will be a comfort to you. It’s a natural enough wish. Precious thing! I declare it’s perfectly touching!”

“Oh, thank you, Bertie, _thank_ you!” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck again. “You don’t know what a load you have taken off my mind!”

“Poor little Mim,” he said, gently stroking her hair, “how you can care as you do about such a devil of a scamp as I am is the mystery!”

“You are not--you are good,” she said brokenly, “and Bertie, there is just one more thing I want to ask you to let me keep. If you’ll do that, I’ll be satisfied.”

“What is it?”

She put her lips to his ear and whispered: “Your name.”

He did not answer immediately, and turning to look in his face, she saw that he looked perplexed.

“Upon my word, my darling child, I don’t know how that is, but if it can be arranged, of course I am willing,” he said.

“Oh, Bertie, Bertie! How can I ever thank you? I was almost afraid to ask it--but it would break my heart to have to give up your name.”

“There, then, precious child, you shan’t!” he said, soothingly. “I’ll talk to the lawyers about it at once. There are one or two business points on which I have to speak to you--things you will have to give your consent to. That is what I came chiefly to see about--at least that was my excuse, though I wanted to see you, too, and to be sure you had forgiven me. You do believe I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you--don’t you, darling?”

“Oh, I know you are! I know you wouldn’t have done it willingly. It was only a misunderstanding. If you had come to me at first and told me what you wanted me to do, I would have done it. It’s the same thing now. There is no need to consult me. All you have to do is to tell me what it is you want me to consent to.”

“We can get through with it very quickly, then,” he said. “I might have known how good and generous you would be; but you see I can’t help making the mistake of thinking you are like the rest of the world, which you are not!”

He explained to her briefly, then, the points on which he had wanted to confer with her, but found, as she had said, that he had her consent to everything he wished beforehand.

“Oh, don’t let’s spoil our last, last time, by talking about things like that!” she said, presently. “Let’s take Fleecy up between us and be happy this once, as we used to be all the time.”

So Fleecy was called and put in the old familiar place, where she nestled snugly down, and purred and dozed in absolute contentment. Both of them caressed the cat in silence for a moment, the tiny hand following the big one up and down its back. Presently Mimi lifted her hand, and said:

“Kiss my ring, please. I should always be regretting it, if I didn’t make you do that.” He kissed it, and the hand too, holding it against his lips a full moment, so that she felt his breath upon it.

Presently she spoke again: “Have I been good?” she said. “Are you pleased with me, Bertie? Do tell me so, if you are. I want to remember that you said so.”

“Pleased with you, my good little darling? Why, how could I fail to be? The more I see of your goodness, the more convinced I am that I was never worthy of you, and my hope is that, once freed of me, you will meet some man who will deserve you better and make you happy.”

She put her little hand over his mouth, so that the last words were stifled, as she said to him, in a voice of keen reproach:

“Bertie, how can you, how dare you think of such a thing? It is the one thing on earth I couldn’t forgive you for. I can forgive utterly and freely your getting tired of me, and wanting a cleverer, handsomer, more amusing wife. It is nothing but natural that you should, and I can see it. But, oh, my dear darling, don’t believe that I could ever love any one else! If I thought you would believe that of me, I don’t believe I could help killing myself. Promise me, Bertie; give me your word, you’ll never say such a thing as that again.”

“I promise, child; I promise,” he replied, half-awed by the intensity of her reproach. “You are a mystery to me, and I’m a mystery to myself, to have won such love.”

“You didn’t win it,” she said; “you just got it, by being what you are.”

“But no one else has ever given it to me--or ever will,” he added, with conviction.

“Ah!” she said, with a deep, indrawn breath, sitting upright on his knee, and clasping her hands tight together, “you will find that out, Bertie! I know no one will ever love you as I do.”

“I know it too,” he said, a look of despondency suddenly crossing his face.

“Bertie,” she said, timidly. “Don’t be angry with me if I ask you something.”

“I warned you not to ask questions.”

“Yes, I know, but I’m not going to do anything to bother you. I promise that, and you know I always keep my word. Only, if you would tell me about things, it would be easier than hearing it from others, or from the papers. But suppose,” she was watching his face intently, to see if its expression permitted her to go on, “suppose,” she said, timidly, “you were to grow tired of her, and wanted her, for your sake, to give you your freedom. Do you think she’d love you enough to do what I have done?”

A curious smile came suddenly to his face:

“Do what you have done?” he said. “I think she’d probe for my heart with a polished stiletto sooner, or put a spider into my dumpling!”

“Then she loves herself better than she loves you--and I love you better than I love myself!”

She said these words with an infinite satisfaction, and the expression of her face was triumphant--almost happy. Her cheeks had still that feverish color, and her eyes were wide and brilliant, as they rested with a hungry, expectant look upon his face. He, meantime, sat silent, looking into the fire. When, at last, compelled by her steady gaze, he looked at her, there was such dumb, intense entreaty in her eyes as he could not misunderstand.

“Mim,” he said, in a whisper, “do you want me to kiss you?”

The tears sprang to her eyes. “If you wouldn’t mind--just once,” she answered.

Their lips met in a long kiss. As he drew backward from it, he put her gently from him, and rose to his feet.

“I must say good-by, now,” he said. “It’s time for me to go.”

She gave a little cry, and looked at him with a half-distracted gaze, as she said, excitedly:

“Oh, not yet--not yet, surely! I thought you would stay for hours. Oh, Bertie, don’t leave me yet--just as we were so happy! My heart will break!”

She turned away with an instinct to conceal from him the agony in her face. He saw her wring her little hands together, and then put them to her lips and bite them, and he knew she was making an effort, for his sake, not to cry. But it was worse still to see this courageous struggle with agony, and his one thought was to get away.

“Bertie,” she said, suddenly turning toward him her pallid and terrified face, “I’m going to bear it if I can. I’ll do my very best, but if--if I find I can’t--if it is going to be like this always, and I can’t bear it, would you mind it very much--do you think you could keep from letting it make you unhappy--if I couldn’t bear it--and killed myself?”

“Mind it! What are you talking about! Why, what do you think I’m made of? I should never have another happy moment as long as I lived. You would simply make me a miserable man for life.”

“Then I won’t do it!” she said, hurriedly. “Indeed, indeed, I won’t! Don’t look at me reproachfully, darling! Forget that I ever thought of that. It was only a moment’s frenzy, and it doesn’t really amount to anything. I give you my promise not to do it, and I know you’ll believe in that.”

“Lord, what a relief!” he said, with a great sigh. “You frightened me out of my wits; but of course you didn’t mean it. Now that you’ve promised, I feel safe. You are too good and tender to give me such a life-long sorrow as that would be. You never could have done it; but it gave me a scare. You don’t believe it now, but once it is inevitable, you’ll get over this extreme feeling about me, and be happy.”

“O Bertie,” she said, timidly, “I don’t want to make you angry, dearest, but if you only _wouldn’t_ say that! I’m willing for you to think of me as happy, if it would comfort you, but not by losing one atom of my love for you. Try to think of it this way--that I’m happy because I love you, so that to have given you the wish of your heart makes me happier than to have the wish of my heart. Will you try?”

“Of course I will, darling. I’ll do anything on earth I can to please you. I’m sure I ought. But now,” glancing at the clock, “I must really be going. I’m obliged to get back on to-night’s train.”

It was no use struggling any longer. She had no strength for the effort. With the weakness of utter surrender, she threw herself into his arms and sobbed.

“There, there, baby,” he said, soothingly. “Don’t cry so, darling. Why, there’s lots and lots to make you happy in life yet. I’ll always remember you as the noblest and most unselfish little woman that ever lived; you’ll have that to comfort you. Don’t let it make you so wretched, precious child. You and Fleecy will have many merry days together yet.”

At the mention of Fleecy, who was contentedly napping on the rug, the poor little creature lifted her head, to say, brokenly:

“Would you like to have Fleecy? You always loved her so. I meant to tell you you could have her if you wanted. I could give her up, if it would please you.”

“No, my precious, no--not for the world. I wouldn’t take her from you, for anything. How could you think I’d be so selfish?”

“Thank you, darling,” she sobbed, with her face hidden on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t care so very much to keep her, but that you gave her to me, and loved her, and she was always with us when we were so happy. Oh, Bertie, darling, beloved, precious treasure of my heart, you’ve been so good to me! You made me, for two years, the happiest creature outside of heaven. If it’s any comfort to you, you can think of that.”

“Of course it will be a comfort to me, darling--and, by Jove, I expect to need something to comfort me, when I think of you, and how unhappy I’ve made you!”

“Don’t reproach yourself. You couldn’t help it. I always knew there was nothing in me to keep the love of such a man as you. Oh, Bertie, my husband!” she cried, still clasping his neck, but drawing back that she might look into his eyes, “let me call you by that name once more, for you are still my husband--mine, mine, mine, and no one else’s! Call me ‘wife’ once more, my darling, before we say good-bye.”

“My little wife, my little wife--my good, true, noble, unselfish, little wife,” he said, while her arms clasped him tighter and tighter, and a shiver shook her little frame from head to foot.

The man’s face, too, was seamed with the lines of pain and disturbance. He looked at the clock and at the door, with the evident desire to escape; but he could not force her from him while she cried and clung like this.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said, suddenly, as a thought struck him, “I’ll walk you, as I used to do, when you got nervous and unhappy. It always made you quiet--do you remember?”

“Oh, you’re so good to me, darling!” she murmured, as he took her up in his arms like a child, and began to walk up and down the room with her. He was magnificently strong, and she was light and little, so that it was no great tax upon him. Fleecy, with her plumy tail held high and her little gold bell tinkling, joined them, and walked at their side, up and down, up and down. Now and then Mimi would murmur some words of tenderness and gratitude, and he would answer with some soothing caress.

The faculty of humor was not lacking in his composition, at least, for, in spite of the agitated pain he had just been suffering, when he caught sight of the little procession in passing a mirror, he smiled at his own reflection. The smile was quickly suppressed, however, as he went on speaking to her soothingly. It had--as he had predicted--a marvellous effect. The little thing ceased sobbing, and her breast grew quiet, after its excited heavings.

At last, the clock struck, and he took her to the lounge and laid her down. “I have not another moment,” he said, “you will let me go now, like the good, brave darling you are?”

“Yes,” she whispered, in a faint, unnatural tone. “I’ll let you go now. Tell me good-by once more.”

“Good-by, my darling wife.”

“Good-by, my darling husband.”

She put her lips up, and he pressed a quick kiss on them, and was gone.

On the landing outside Mauma was sitting, erect and repellent, in every line of figure and face.

“Go to your mistress, Mauma,” said Leith. “I trust you to look after her and take good care of her.”

“Yes--bress de Lord, I say!” replied Mauma, with cold contempt. “It’s a pow’ful good thing nobody don’ trus’ _you_--fur that or nuthin’! Dee’d find deeselves mistaken, ef dee did.”

With a smile of amusement, the man shook off the sadness that had clung to him, in coming from that room, and said in a gay, though carefully lowered tone:

“You’re just the same as ever, Mauma, I see! Well, I’m glad of it. I wouldn’t have you changed for anything. I always told your mistress that you were the one woman I had found it impossible to win! So, you see, you have a unique charm for me.”

“I hope to de Lord some woman’ll pay you back fur what you’se bin mek dat angil-child suffer,” was the solemn response, “en you mark my words--de day’s gwine come!”

With his unfailing instinct to escape from what was unpleasant, Leith hurried down the stairs, threw on his coat, and let himself out into the street. As the door closed behind him, Mauma, bending over her little mistress, found that she was in a dead faint.

Restoratives were used, and she at last recovered consciousness; but that evening’s ordeal was followed by a long attack of fever, in which death, after promising relief for a while, withdrew and left her to her life of misery.

“There is one blessing in this illness,” Mr. Manning said to Mrs. Bryan, when he called one day to inquire for the invalid, “she never knew the day of her divorce. Now she will just recognize the fact that it is past, and that she’s no longer that scoundrel’s wife. A more cold-blooded, selfish, unmitigated brute I never came across, and it’s a blessed thing she’s got the divorce, poor little thing! All the same, it has broken her heart.”

By the time the invalid was able to go about again, the papers mentioned the marriage of Herbert Leith, in Spain.

Nothing but the bare fact reached the ears of Mimi, who still bears his name and wears his ring, and bullies Mauma and pampers Fleecy, and looks almost as childish, though never as pretty again, as she did on the night of that parting.

The Thirst and the Draught

The Thirst and the Draught

“The thirst which from the soul doth rise Doth ask a draught divine!”

“Most extraordinary!”

These words were uttered aloud by Mr. Black as he sat alone in his editorial office, engaged in the laborious work of reading manuscript. He was a reserved man; indeed, he had to be, for nothing but his great self-possession and power of concentration could have enabled him to get through with the duties of his position. With the aid of these, however, he did accomplish them thoroughly and systematically, and was always deliberate in his manner--rarely hurried, and rarely excited.