“We sailed for Liverpool, and traveled abroad a year, and on our return we married again, and this time publicly. We are very happy, although there was much pain behind it all. We both know now what true happiness is.”
TALE THIRTEEN.
NOT GUILTY.
“I have so loved thee, but cannot, cannot hold thee,
Fading like a dream, the shadows fold thee;
Slowly thy perfect beauty fades away,
Good-bye, sweet day; good-bye, sweet day.”
I stood outside and listened. The silvery, sweet tones of the singer rose clear above the soft guitar accompaniment. As the last words died away on the stillness of the evening air, I rang the bell. It seemed almost sacrilege to break in on her quiet enjoyment, although I knew she must soon be expecting me. She responded to the summons at the door herself. Of medium height, with beautiful, sloping shoulders, a tiny waist and perfectly moulded hips, she would have inspired an artist. Her hair was prematurely gray, and dressed low on her neck. Her face was almost perfect in feature and the only traces of sorrow time had left visible were the gray hairs and lines about the slightly drooping mouth. It was the heart which bore the scars of agony, invisible to all but her and her God. She had passed through the fire and had come forth purer, fairer, sweeter, more charitable, more forgiving, better fitted to cope with the world.
This was the woman as I knew her now, and had known her for the past year. She was to be married on the morrow (lucky man), and had promised to tell me her life’s story before she married.