"Whither bound?" I asked. "To Rome?"
"No; to the Guadalupe. I want to try what nature can do for me. Art, society, even friendship, fail at times to comfort me for my lost love. I will go back to nature, the great, sweet mother and lover of men."
So Petralto went out of New York; and the world that had known him forgot him—forgot even to wonder about, much less to regret, him.
I was no more faithful than others. I fell in with a wonderful German philosopher, and got into the "entities" and "non-entities," forgot Petralto in Hegel, and felt rather ashamed of the days when I lounged and trifled in the artist's pleasant rooms. I was "enamored of divine philosophy," took no more interest in polite gossip, and did not waste my time reading newspapers. In fact, with Kant and Fichte before me, I did not feel that I had the time lawfully to spare.
Therefore, anyone may imagine my astonishment when, about three years after Petralto's departure from New York, he one morning suddenly entered my study, handsome as Apollo and happy as a bridegroom. I have used the word "groom" very happily, for I found out in a few minutes that Petralto's radiant condition was, in fact, the condition of a bridegroom.
Of course, under the circumstances, I could not avoid feeling congratulatory; and my affection for the handsome, loving fellow came back so strongly that I resolved to break my late habits of seclusion, and go to the Brevoort House and see his bride.
I acknowledge that in this decision there was some curiosity. I wondered what rare woman had taken the beautiful Jessy Lorimer's place; and I rather enjoyed the prospect of twitting him with his protestations of eternal fidelity to his first love.
I did not do it. I had no opportunity. Madame Petralto Garcia was, in fact, Jessy Lorimer Lennox. Of course I understood at once that Will must be dead; but I did not learn the particulars until the next day, when Petralto dropped in for a quiet smoke and chat. Not unwillingly I shut my book and lit my cigar.
"'All's well that ends well,' my dear fellow," I said, when we had both smoked silently for a few moments; "but I never heard of Will Lennox's death. I hope he did not come to the Guadalupe and get shot."
Petralto shook his head and replied: "I was always sorry for that threat. Will never meant to injure me. No. He was drowned at sea two years ago. His yacht was caught in a storm, he ventured too near the shore, and all on board perished."