Part 69 (2/2)
He started to his feet with a dazed look and pa.s.sed his hand across his brow--the same gesture she so well remembered seeing him make at the close of the happy evening he had spent at her home. As he realized that the maiden before him was flesh and blood, and not a creation of his morbid fancy, the hot blood rushed swiftly into his face, and his eyes fell before her.
”Yes, Miss Mayhew, I am,” he said, briefly.
”I am very sorry. Can I not do anything for you?” she asked, kindly.
He looked up at her in strong surprise, and was still more perplexed by the sympathetic expression of her face, but he only said, ”I regret to say you cannot.”
”Mr. Van Berg,” said Ida, in tones full of distress, ”your words and appearance pain me exceedingly. You look as if you had been ill a month. What has happened?” His aspect might trouble one less interested in him than herself, for his eyes were blood-shot, and he had become so haggard that she could scarcely realize that he was the man who but four days previous had compared his hearty merriment with the ”laughter of the G.o.ds.”
”Miss Mayhew,” he said, bitterly and slowly, too, as if he were carefully choosing his words, ”you had a presentiment last Sat.u.r.day that some evil was about to happen. As far as I am concerned the worst has happened. I have lost my self-respect. I have no right to stand here in your presence. I have no right to be in this place even. I once tossed away a little flower that had been sadly marred, through no fault of its own, and as I did so I said in my pride and self-complacency that its imperfection justified my act.
You understood me too well, and my accursed Phariseeism wounded your very heart. You afterwards generously forgave my offence and a worse one, but G.o.d is just and I am now punished in the severest possible way. I perceive now that you do not understand me, or you could not look and speak so kindly. I thought you had learned me better, for you spoke words on the boat that pierced my very soul, revealing me to myself, and later you pa.s.sed me without a glance.
You were right in both instances. You are wrong now, and i shall not take advantage of your present ignorance, which circ.u.mstances will soon remove. I repeat it, Miss Mayhew, I have no right to be here and speaking to you, and yet”--he made a pa.s.sionate and despairing gesture, and was about to turn hastily away, when Ida said, earnestly, with her eyes fixed on his face, as was her instinctive custom when she sought to learn more from the expression of the speaker than from his words:
”Mr. Van Berg, before we part, answer me one question. Have you deliberately and selfishly intended to do wrong, or to wrong any one?”
”No,” he promptly replied meeting, her searching look unhesitatingly.
Then, with an impatient gesture, he added: ”But no one will ever believe it.”
”I believe it,” she said with a rea.s.suring smile.
”You? You of all others? But you are talking at random, Miss Mayhew. When you learn the truth you will look and speak very differently. And you shall learn it now. You once told me of a wicked and desperate purpose to which you were driven by the wrong of others. Your sin seems to me a deed of light compared with the act I have been led to commit, under the guidance of my proud reason, my superior judgement, my cool, well-balanced nature--infernally cool it was, indeed! Pardon me, but I am beside myself with rage and self-loathing. True, I have not been intentionally false, but there are circ.u.mstances in which folly, weakness, and stupid blundering are nearly as bad, and the results quite as bad. What can you say of the man who pays open suit and makes a distinct offer and pledge to a lady, and the retreats from that suit and breaks that pledge, and through no fault whatever in the lady herself?
What can you say of that man when the lady is a poor and orphaned girl, whom any one with a spark of honor would s.h.i.+eld with his life, but that he is a base, fickle wretch, who deserves the contempt of all good men and women, and that he ought to be--as he shall be--a vagabond on the face of the earth?”
Ida had buried her face in her hands as she learned how thoroughly Van Berg had committed himself to Miss Burton, and the artist concluded, abruptly: ”One thing is certain, he has no right to be here. I shall not wait and see your look of scorn, or--worse--of pity, for I could not endure it,” and he s.n.a.t.c.hed up his sketch-book and was about to hasten from the place, when Ida sprang forward and said pa.s.sionately:
”Wait. This is all wrong. Answer me this--when you discovered the awful crime, which in heart I had already committed, how did you treat me?”
”Your purpose was wicked, but not base.”
”You have not intended to be either base or wicked,” she began.
”Hus.h.!.+” he interrupted sternly, ”you shall not palliate my weakness by smooth words, and to a man, weakness and stupidity, in some circ.u.mstances, are more contemptible than crime. Oh, how I envy Stanton! His course has been straightforward, n.o.ble, regal--I have acted like one of the 'canaille.'”
”You deeply regret then, that your feelings have so changed towards Miss Burton?” said Ida, with her eyes again fastened upon his face.
”I do not think my feelings have changed towards her,” he replied; ”she is admirable, perfect, and I honor her from the depths of my heart. Don't you see? I mistook my deep respect, sympathy, and admiration for something more, and I smiled complacently in my superior way and flattered myself that it was in this eminently well-bred and rational manner that Harold Van Berg would pay his addresses to a lady, and that Stanton's absorbing pa.s.sion was only the result of ungoverned, unbalanced nature--accursed prig that I was! While in this very complacent and superior condition of mind I committed myself to a course that I cannot carry out, and yet my failure to do so slays my honor and self-respect. Now, I have been as explicit with you as you were with me, and with what you have seen of yourself, you know the whole miserable truth. By a strange fate we who only met a few months since have come to share a common, very sad knowledge. The memory of your own past, and I suppose, your Christian faith also, have made you very merciful and generous, but I shall tax these qualities no further.”
”What will you do, Mr. Van Berg?” Ida asked in sudden dread.
”I shall never look Miss Burton in the face again, and after I have written to her simply and briefly what I have told you, her regret will be small indeed. Good-by, Miss Mayhew. If I stay any longer I may speak words to you that would be insults, coming from me.”
”Stay,” she said, earnestly, ”I have something very important to say to you.”
He hesitated and looked at her in strong surprise.
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