“No,” he said at last, “if my marriage is to go on, it must be on a basis of truth. I can't go back to Mary and act and live a lie. If she will have me back, she must know I've made some sacrifice to come, I'll go, if she says so, because I care for her, but I can't go as a faithful, loving husband—it would be too grotesque.”
“Consider her health, my friend,” implored Adolph, still with his bewildered, shocked air; “it might kill her!”
“Can't! She's as strong as a horse—she can face the truth like a man.”
“Then think of the other woman; you must protect her.”
“Pshaw! she doesn't need protection! You don't know Felicity; she'd be just as likely as not to tell Mary herself.”
“I always thought you so honorable, so generous,” Adolph murmured, dejectedly.
“Oh, cut it, Adolph. I'm being as honorable and generous as I know how. I'll write to Mary now, and offer to come back if she says the word, and never see Felicity again. I can't do more.”
He flung himself down at the desk, and snatched a pen.
“My dearest girl:” he wrote rapidly, “your brave letter has
come to me, and I can answer it only with the truth. All that
you feared when you heard of F.'s being with me is true. I
found her here two months ago, and we have been together
most of the time since. It was not planned, Mary; it came to
me wholly unexpectedly, when I thought myself cured of love.
I care for you, my dear, I believe you the noblest and most
beautiful of women, but from F. I have had something which
a woman of your kind could never give, and in spite of the
pain I feel for your grief, I cannot say with truth that I regret
it. There are things—in life and love of which you, my
beautiful and clear-eyed Goddess, can know nothing—there is
a wild grape, the juice of which you will never drink, but which
once tasted, must ever be desired. Because this draught is so
different from your own milk and honey, because it leaves my
tenderness for you all untouched, because drinking it has assuaged
a thirst of which you can have no knowledge, I ask you
not to judge it with high Olympian judgment. I ask you
to forgive me, Mary, for I love you still—better now than when
I left you—and I hold you above all women. The cup is still
at my lips, but if you will grant me forgiveness I will drink
no more. I agonize over your grief—if you will let me I will
return and try to assuage it. Write me, Mary, and if the word
is forgive, for your sake I will bid my friend farewell now and
forever. I am still your husband if you will have me—there
is no woman I would serve but you.
“Stefan.”
He signed his name in a dashing scrawl, blotted and folded the letter without rereading it, addressed and stamped it, and sprang hatless down the stairs to post it.