“New York, Feb. 1, 1871.
“Dear Mr. Scarlett,—We were married yesterday. We have life before us, but are not afraid. I shall never forget you; my wife can never forget the woman you love. We have both passed through hell—but we have passed through alive. And we pray for the happiness of you and yours.
“Kelly Eyre.”
Sobered, I laid this letter beside the first, turned thoughtfully away into the room, then stood stock-still. 388
The Countess de Vassart stood in the doorway, a smile trembling on her lips. In her gray eyes I read hope; and I took her hands in mine. She stood silent with bent head, exquisite in her silent shyness; and I told her I loved her, and that I asked for her love; that I had found employment in Egypt, and that it was sufficient to justify my asking her to wed me.
“As for my name,” I said, “you know that is not the name I bear; yet, knowing that, you have given me your love. You read my dossier in Paris; you know why I am alone, without kin, without a family, without a home. Yet you believe that I am not tainted with dishonor. And I am not. Listen, this is what happened; this is why I gave up all; and ... this is my name!” ...
And I bent my head and whispered the truth for the first time in my life to any living creature.
When I had ended I stood still, waiting, head still bowed beside hers.
She laid her hand on my hot face and slowly drew it close beside hers.
“What shall I promise you?” she whispered.