“But one day a telegram came announcing that my wife had been murdered—struck down in her own home, in the light of day, in the presence of her helpless old father.
“Behind the dreadful deed was the usual crazy rejected suitor. I knew the wretched boy well—he was but a boy—but never dreamed of the ghastly possibilities within his crooked mind. But what know we of any one? Who is safe from treating the community to a hideous sensation?
“He had long been fond of Emma, but lost hope when he saw that my attitude toward her was an assured one. But after I went away he got it into his crazy head that we had quarreled, and took heart again. When he implored her to marry him, and she refused without telling him that she was already married, he shot her dead and then shot himself.
“Horror, grief, and remorse overwhelmed me. I blamed myself. Why had I not announced the marriage at once? Had the wretched boy known that Emma was my wife, he would have let her alone, I am sure. What did it avail that I put a tablet at her grave bearing the name of Emma Westfield? Humble as was the name it might have protected her had it been openly bestowed upon her.
“This happened ten years ago, before my friend Brooks, our host, ever met me. He knows nothing of it—doesn’t dream that I ever was married. To speak of it would oblige me to enter into explanations, to uncover my heart to gratify curiosity, which, however kindly meant, is always painful to a sore spirit. I tell you that you may understand I have at least the shadow of an excuse for being what I am, a man without purpose, a withered, useless branch of the human tree, waiting for the man with the pruning knife to come and cut me down.
“See the irony of fate. A few days after my wife’s death, my uncle died, leaving all his property to my brother and me. We were now owners of the newspaper on which we had worked as employees, and of other valuable interest besides. It only emphasized my misery. Of all my possessions I could give nothing to the woman I loved—nothing but a stone at the end of a little heap of earth.
“It might have been better for me had I not inherited my uncle’s property, for it enabled me to idle away my time and indulge my selfish grief, until my will became enfeebled, and that means the crumbling of the whole character, which goes to pieces like an old wall.
“I went away, wandering over the earth aimlessly, not trying to benefit by travel, only hoping to make new scenes blot out the old, unbearable ones. I spent years in the vain effort to run away from myself. I am still engaged in that hopeless effort, though I have learned that it can’t be done. We take our world with us wherever we go—heaven and hell bring both within us.
“I am but a morbid idler, who has lost the qualities that give a man a place among men. Though I never tried to stifle memory and misery in debauchery, my money melted away. The coarse pleasures many men pursue never had charms for me, but my destruction was none the less sure. It has come without degradation, I am thankful to say, save that which any man must feel who has let himself slide down hill so far he never can climb up again.
“Once only since that dreadful thing happened have I accomplished anything. I braced myself against my inner foes long enough to write the little book you know. It gave me fame enough for a foundation for future work, had I followed it up; but I didn’t. I fell immediately back into the clutches of the miserable devils who possessed me—made a complete and inglorious surrender to them for all time, caring naught who wins the prizes in the hateful race of life.