The railroad promoter had never troubled to think deeply on matters outside his material interests. Of religion, he had none, and he seldom stopped to consider the ethical side of a question. But all at once, as by a miracle, the scales fell from his eyes. In a sudden flash of illuminating reason he saw himself as he was—selfish, cynical, inconsiderate, brutal. He was astounded at finding himself compelled to admit the truth of these self-made charges. He did not mean to be all these things. At heart he was a good fellow. It was simply the fault of his training. He saw now the truth of what in his egotism and cynicism he had always scoffed at before, that some women are strong enough morally, brave enough physically to do anything, make any sacrifice for the sake of right. How unworthy he had proved himself of such a woman! What respect could she have left for him, what respect had he left for himself?
And as the days went by without word from her and the full realization of what he had lost slowly came to him, he thought he would go mad from anxiety and remorse. He did not know where she had gone and his pride prevented him from communicating with her sister. James Gillie had handed in a haughty resignation the day following Virginia's departure, so there was no way of learning anything from that source, and the detective he had employed had thus far discovered nothing. She might be in difficulties, in actual want and would not ask assistance from sheer pride. The thought was maddening and for days Stafford, distraught, unable to attend to his affairs, remained in the house, hoping, half expecting, she would return until the uncertainty and continual disappointment nearly drove him insane. He could not eat; he could not sleep. His ears still rang with her reproaches, her stinging words of bitter denunciation. At night he would wake up suddenly in a cold sweat imagining he saw her standing at the bed, looking at him with her large, sorrowful eyes, full of tears and reproach.
If he had never been sure of it before, he knew now that he loved her. Everything in the house, now she was gone, told him so. As he wandered aimlessly through the deserted rooms, and his glance fell on the corners and objects with which she was associated—the deep easy chair in the library in which she would bury herself for hours with an interesting book; her baby grand piano, still open with the sheets of music scattered about; her private chamber with the bed undisturbed, closets empty, furniture arranged in precise order, and already beginning to accumulate dust—he realized for the first time all that she had been to him. He had not married young like most men. She had come into his life when his habits and opinions were already formed. For that reason he had treated his wife like a child, to be petted and indulged, but who at no time must be permitted to assert her independence or interfere in any way with her husband's mode of living. But little by little, even without his being conscious of it, she had taken a larger place in his life. Gradually, she had made herself necessary to him, to his peace of mind, to his comfort. Not only did she fill the house with her youthful enthusiasm and girlish laughter, but when business cares weighed heavy on his shoulders and he came home tired, glad of someone to whom he could confide his troubles, he found in her the most sympathetic of listeners. In the evening she would sit at the piano and play for him his favorite music. Ah, how divinely she played the Schubert Serenade; its sad, mournful melody was even now ringing in his ears, perfectly attuned to his present mood. Insensate fool that he had been! He had enjoyed all this and yet had deemed it of such little value that he had spurned it and driven it away. This woman, his wife, who had brought sunshine into his life and home—this loyal, faithful comrade—he had insulted beyond all forgiveness. When it all came clear to him, he thought he would go mad.
Ah, if she would only forgive him and come back! His first impulse was to go after her, humiliate himself, go on his knees if necessary, and beseech her to return. A dozen times he sat down and wrote her a letter, but they were never sent. His pride forbade it, and caused him to go about wearing a mask of indifference which he was far from feeling. No, he could not go after her. All through his life, he had prided himself on his strength of will. It was the keystone of his character, both in his relations with his workmen and also in his domestic life. If he were to weaken, no matter what the circumstances, after once taking a determined stand, he would forfeit not only the world's respect, but his own as well. He was as proud and self-willed as she. He had told her that he would never go to her unless she sent for him. If, therefore, she was as proud and determined as he was, they had said good-bye for ever. They would never see each other again. If she did not write, it was because she had tired of him and did not want to come back. Perhaps she had found someone for whom she cared more, and no doubt one of these days some lawyer would be serving him with papers in a separation or divorce suit. Thus, his brain conjuring up all kinds of possibilities, he began to nourish feelings of anger and resentment. Suppose he had been a little rough with her, it was far worse for her to abandon him and expose him to all kinds of slanderous rumors. Thus, steeling his heart, he tried to forget her.
For a time he went back to his old style of life, leading again that easy-going, bohemian existence of his bachelor days. He plunged into gaieties and dissipations of every kind. He gambled freely, drank heavily and gave midnight champagne suppers enlivened by "appetizing" vaudeville, to prominent ladies of the demi-monde. Yet even these excesses could not drown the prickings of conscience. Sometimes, amid one of these nocturnal debauches, and while the drunken revelry was at its height, he would suddenly see Virginia's pale, thoughtful face. Her eyes, dimmed with tears, and full of reproach, would seem to be gazing at him questioningly, wonderingly, that he should have so degraded himself. With a cry of disgust, he would spring up from his chair and go back to his desolate home.
Gradually the strain told upon him. He grew nervous and depressed. His physician warned him against working too hard.
"It's the grave malady of our time," said the doctor, shaking his head. "All our successful men fall victims to it. It's this cursed race to get rich quick."
Stafford shook his head. With a grim smile he said:
"You are mistaken, doctor. My affairs were never in better shape. I'm ashamed to tell you what ails me. It's a schoolboy's complaint. I'm in love—for the first time in my life."