Nor could he bring himself to the shame, not to say the dishonesty, of trying to borrow money which he could foresee no way of paying.
This was the pass to which his marriage with Palma had brought him! Did he regret his marriage?
“No,” he said to himself, “though I proposed to her, first of all, under the diabolical influence of the beautiful fiend who had me in her power, and for mercenary purposes that were to serve us, the two conspirators, yet for one redeeming event I do thank Providence—and that is that I discovered Palma to be penniless as well as invalided before I married her. Then I kept faith with her; I married her; I saved her precious life, and I have grown to know her and to love her above all things on earth. And to whatever straits I may be reduced, and however much I may suffer, I will, so far as possible, shield my beloved one from knowing them or sharing them. But in the meantime what in the name of Heaven am I to do? And what is to become of her? Men in such straits as mine have been driven, are daily driven, to commit suicide. We read such cases in almost every paper, and often with the concluding comment: ‘No motive could be discovered for the desperate deed.’ I suppose, now, if I were to be so lost to a sense of justice as to end my trouble with a shot to-night, it would be said to-morrow: ‘He had just come from a wedding breakfast, where he appeared among the happiest of the guests. No motive can be surmised for his desperate deed.’ As if men paraded their perplexities to all and sundry, in season and out of season, and wore their motives and intentions pinned on their sleeves—especially such motives and intentions. Pah! nothing could drive me to such a deed. I must live and brave my fate, trusting in Heaven, doing my duty! But all the same, sweet little Palma, if it were Heaven’s will, I think it would be well if you and I should fall asleep to-night and never awake again in this world!”
So deep, so painful, so absorbing was his reverie that he did not perceive the approach of the postman, who ran against him in the dark, begged his pardon and passed on until he reached the main entrance of the apartment house, went in, came out, and hurried on again out of sight up the street.
Stuart had scarcely noticed him, beyond muttering, “Not at all,” when the other had said, “Beg pardon, sir.” And now he thought no more of the incident, but continued his walk for an hour, as if by wearying his body he might relieve his mind.
Presently, thinking that this was their dinner hour, though he had little appetite for dinner just now, he turned and entered the hall. He did not ring up the elevator, but he walked heavily up the five flights of stairs. It was a mental relief to fatigue himself to faintness.
He entered the little parlor and found not dinner, but the tea table spread.
Palma was sitting behind the urn and waiting for him. The fire was very bright, the parlor very snug, and the little wife very happy. If this could only continue!
“I thought, after a wedding feast at two o’clock, that tea would be better than dinner at six. So I told Poley. Do you mind, Cleve?” inquired Palma.
“No, dear; indeed, I prefer tea; it will be more refreshing,” he replied, trying to overcome the heaviness of his soul so that it should not appear in his look or tone.