A Thoughtless Yes

by Helen H. Gardener

I started visibly. I had had no idea that it was so bad as this. I changed my position to hide or cover the involuntary movement I had made, but he had seen it and the color died out of his face. He forced himself to begin again. "I carried that forged check," he was articulating now with horrible distinctness, "wherever I went. She never knew anything about it. She knew I was—she thought, or feared, that I might be somewhat—what you Americans call crooked; but she did not know the truth, not until the very last. She knew that I had been unreliable in some ways long ago; but she did not dream of the worst. At last,—sometimes I think I was a fool to have done it,—but I told her. I told her the whole truth, and—she left me. She had borne everything till then. I think she came here. Before long I followed. She told me not to, and I said I would not; but of course I did. I could not help it. I knew then, and I know now, that I am putting myself into the clutches of the law; but I do not care—not now— since I cannot find Florence Campbell."

He pronounced the name as if it were a treasure wrung from him by force. "It is the only really criminal thing I ever did. I do not know why I did it. They say that crime—a taste for it, develops slowly, by degrees. Maybe so; but not with me, not with me.

"I had money enough; but—oh, my God! how I hated him. I saw that he was growing to love her without knowing it. I often heard them talking together. They did not know it, and if they had it could not have been more innocent; but I was madly jealous, for the first time in my life. I determined to make him think ill of her, and yet I said just now that forgery was my only crime. That was worse, by far, but I believe it is not a crime in law."

He smiled scornfully. "I have outgrown all that now. The storm has left me the wreck you see; but I thought it all out last night, and determined to tell you. You are to tell—him—for her sake," he said between his set teeth.

"He may see her yet some day. She will never return to me—God bless her! God help us both!"

"No, she will never return to you nor to anyone else," I said, as gently as I could.

He sprang up with the energy of a maniac. "How do you know? What do you know?" he demanded.

"I only know that she is dead, my friend," I said, placing my hand on his arm, "and that Dr. Hamilton does not wish to punish you. I heard it all; the story of the forgery of his name, and that a Florence Campbell was in some way connected with it. I heard it from him long, long ago; but he does not know that you are Tom Campbell. You are safe."

"Does not wish to punish me! I am safe! Great God, no one could punish me. I do that. Safe! Oh, the irony of language!"

There was a long pause. He had gone to the window and was staring out into the darkness.