Part 18 (1/2)
She had been watching his face whilst he had hesitated and she now grew white.
”You know we used to talk quite a deal about those sentimental chapters,” he went on. ”There was a sweet little girl, too, whose existence you suspected.”
”I remember,” said Helen faintly. ”We did talk about those chapters, but you would never let me get a glimpse of what was inside them. And then I could never really learn whether they were real or imaginary.
As a woman of the world, I believed there must be such chapters in the biography of a young man who had lived twenty-eight whole years; as a woman in love with the young man of twenty-eight, I longed to disbelieve in them. Which shows that the real nature of the individual is finer than life is. Life would make us all cynics if the n.o.ble in some of us did not find truth too plebeian a fellow to keep company with. I have long since suspected that truth is not that beautiful nude young person one sees rising out of wells at Academy Exhibitions.
Illusion, at any rate, is every whit as real a factor of the universe, and it is far more agreeable to live with. So, naturally, Morgan, I chose it to live with, hoping, of course, it was not illusion.
However, there _was_ a sweet, little girl?”
”Your inference from my poem was perfectly correct.”
”Farewell, my fine dreams,” said Helen, in mock-heroic declamation, which did not blind him to the pain beneath. ”But you'll introduce me to her, won't you?”
”It's the sweet little girl's sister,” he corrected; ”but I can't introduce you to her, because I shall never see her again.”
”You _shall_ see her again,” said Helen. ”Don't be such a faint heart.”
”Even if I were free, I am not fit even to look at her.”
”The sooner you get a more appreciative conception of yourself, the better.”
”Truth has too great a hold over me for that.”
”How fine it must be to be loved by you,” half-mused Helen. ”With you it is first love and everlasting.”
”Yes, it is everlasting. It is a quality of my fibre, divinely inwoven like mind in matter. It is something immortal, so that even if Margaret change and forget me wholly, she can never take away the living fragrance that came to me in the first times. I have loved her and shall love her always.”
”What nice things you say. If they could only have been inspired by me! But all that is over now. So her name's Margaret. I am sure she will never change, nor even begin to forget you, Morgan. But won't you begin to read those chapters now? I do so want to hear them.”
He placed them before her unreservedly and she at length had his life complete. But when he had finished he was alarmed at her pallor.
”You are not well, Helen,” he cried impulsively.
”'Tis nothing. I shall be all right in a moment.” She drew her breath heavily. ”It feels like pins and needles,” she added. ”I want to get the transition over now, though it is rather an abrupt one.”
”The transition!” he repeated, only half-comprehending.
”Yes. It is attended with queer sensations. Pins and needles, thousands of them--and something feels tight. But I shall emerge all the better for it. So far I have only loved you; henceforth I want to love you and Margaret as well.”
”How I have made you suffer!” he murmured brokenly. His hand sought hers. ”My good angel!”
She drew her hand back.
”No--not angel, but only a simple prophet; and as a prophet I tell you you were born to be happy.”
He shook his head, bethinking himself he must go back to his Cleo.
”Now I hope you won't make me miserable again,” said Helen, as he rose to go, ”by leaving me in the dark about you. And mind you let me know at once if you have need of me to-morrow. A special messenger will be sure to find me, as I shall not be leaving the house till four o'clock. Keep a stout heart and let the light of hope vanquish the vapours and fogs. Above all, bear my prophecy in mind.”
CHAPTER VIII.