"I—I have no doubt that it has greatly appealed to him," she said, now vaguely looking out of the window into yards chiefly adorned with fluttering raiment dependent from a very spider's web of intricate lines. "It—it was a sporting thing to do, you know, very manly and fine. But he also wrote to me and—I have never been able to understand. Of course I wouldn't have interfered with—with a plan like that. I have only wished I could have gone over and done something too—something that would count and make one feel that she could be of some use in the world. Yes—it's a big thing he's done—but why did he write me such a letter?"
She opened a small bag she had been carrying and pulled out a missive that bore my friend's monogram, a very plain G.M. cleverly interlaced.
"Won't you please look at it, Mr. Cole? I got it the day we left Florida. I—I was rather bunkered at first, you know."
I took it from her, doubtless displaying far more nervousness than she was showing, for she appeared to be quite calm. I saw that she had taken the blow as Frieda's pugilistic friend might have accepted what he calls a wallop, with a brave smile, after the first wince. I also read it over twice.
"My dear Sophia:
"It's rather hard on a fellow to be compelled to acknowledge he's anything but a decent sportsman. I'm afraid I shall have to. In your kindness you may, perhaps, forgive me. I have made a bad mess of things. I wouldn't mind so much if it wasn't hitting you also, because you're a good pal and a splendid girl who deserves a better chap. I'm off abroad to play chauffeur to the cripples, and, of course, there is no telling when I'll be back.
"I hope to God you will find some decent fellow who really deserves you and will make you happy.
"Affectionately,
"Gordon."
After I had finished this horrible and clumsy message, I looked at Miss Van Rossum. There was something very wistful and strong in the glance that rested upon me. I had no doubt that she had been studying my face, as I read, and watching the impression made on me. Of course, he had been greatly agitated when he wrote. I felt sure that he must have torn up one letter after another and finally sent the worst of all. It had dwindled into a few lines, which explained nothing, being merely brutal and final, like a knockout blow. He had made a mess of things, forsooth! Well, the reading of such a letter might have made one think that he had robbed a bank or cheated at cards!
"You see, Mr. Cole, it doesn't say much, does it? I just had to tell my mother that Gordon had felt called upon to go off and—and do a big thing, and that of course the—the whole thing was put off indefinitely. I—I don't think she was disappointed. Of course, they had allowed me to have my own way, and they liked Gordon very well, but they had a notion that in our own circle—But, of course, that's neither here nor there. Naturally, I knew at once that Gordon could never have done anything really wrong. He's a very true and genuine man, in his way, and incapable of—of a nasty action. So I just had to suppose that perhaps some other woman had come into his life and that he didn't love me any more. And he—he was never very demonstrative, you know; it wasn't his way. But he had always been such a good friend, and so wonderfully clever, and—But of course, you know all that. His letter to you, I think, gives me what they call a clue. He—he sends his love to—to somebody I don't know. Of course I'm not going to ask—I really only came to know whether there was anything I could do. I wondered whether there was, perhaps, some money trouble, or something like that, and I'd have been so glad to—to help out. You were his best friend and could have told me how to manage it, but now I see——"
She interrupted her words, rising from the chair I had offered her and looking very handsome and, I must say, dignified.
"I wouldn't have troubled you, you know, but I have been all at sea. It—it has been rather tough, because Gordon is a man whom a woman could love very deeply—at any rate I never realized how I felt towards him, until I had gone away and then received this letter."
I had been listening, looking into her fine, clear, blue eyes, which honestly and truly, with the frankness and candor of the child or the chaste woman, had expressed the love that had been in her heart and, perhaps, lingered there still. So intent had I been upon her words that I had failed to hear adventitious sounds. Frances, also, with her hand pressed to her bosom, showed eyes dimmed by gathering tears. She had risen with the impulse to go forward and press this suffering woman to her heart. I was about to explain the message of love in Gordon's postscript, when there was a wheezing at the door, which had been left open.