So he told the reporters his sad story in his most eloquent fashion, and they reproduced it in glowing paragraphs, denouncing Fedora in unmeasured terms for her sins and her hypocrisy, and hinting at the beautiful love affair that had been broken off by Fedora's resurrection from the grave in which her young husband believed her resting. They did not tell the name of the actor's beautiful young love, because Ralph Chainey had been very careful not to tell them; but they dwelt eloquently on the actor's love for her, and his hope that, in the event of his securing a divorce, she would become his worshiped wife.
Kathleen read this moving story with heaving bosom and dilated eyes, and while she was yet reading it, the bell rang and a package was handed in for her with a letter.
Ralph Chainey—forgetting, like any true lover, his pride in his love—had sent to Kathleen marked copies of the morning papers and some brief, pathetic lines.
"Oh, my lost love," ran the note, "will you not read, and reading, pity and forgive me, the story of my sorrows? Oh, Kathleen! they say that you are pledged to wed another. Tell me that it is not so! My one great hope is for freedom, that I may yet have the hope of winning you. Life without that hope would be a living death. Oh, Kathleen, my love, my darling! pity me—pity yourself! You have not learned to love the man you have promised to marry. Send him from you. Wait a little, my darling, and happiness will come to us!
"Ralph."
"Oh, my poor boy—my poor boy!" sobbed Kathleen.
She forgot herself, she forgot Teddy Darrell, to whom she had promised herself, and she kissed Ralph Chainey's letter with red, clinging lips, as if it had been his handsome face.
"Why did I not listen to him that day when I was so wild with jealousy that I would not let him explain?" she cried, self-upbraidingly. "I was foolish and silly. It is a wonder that he could ever forgive me. No. I can not marry Teddy now. But—will—he release me—from—my promise?"