They follow the tracks of one who has fled far back into the blackest cavern of the darkest woods, fled with a little babe in her arms, fled to hide her shame. Its father is not there, though he swore never so faithlessly to be a loyal lover, and then a loving husband to her who holds the little one in her arms, kissing it, and then despising it, and then kissing it again and again. She loves this child of shame while he—he breaks the vows which once he intended to keep. Then the wise men turn and say: “Truth is dead and will not live until God awakes and asks Lucifer who defiled this lily of His own garden in the pool of his passion. Is not this Tragedy?” It is not, but it is her shadow. She is near now. Come and see her form.
Runs a boy, blowing kisses to the butterflies, and teaching the honey bees where to search for the flowers, whence the sweetest nectar may be drawn. Thus clearly has he discovered all else save her who is seeking him. Lo! He is a youth now, and daily he hears her whisperings in his ears, and sometimes so close does she come that her gentle touch may be felt on his cheek, and her soft fingers rest lightly on his shoulder. Many years he lived, but love came not into his life. At last he is white-haired and knows—that he is old. His gasp and his heavy breathing, his pulse—they are feeling it anxiously. They know that it is taking two steps backward and one forward. They need not feel his brow nor his feet. They, too, at last are cold. Then they say: “This is Tragedy! A man dying who has never seen love—surely this is Tragedy!”
It is.
Such were the thoughts of Colonel Masters as, with a slow and halting gait, he had wandered down to the burnt district and reached the Battery, now overgrown with weeds. The great game was over! With the hand of a past master, he had played his cards—and lost. Was it his fault?
So now, when his plans were in ruins and his eyes in tears, when his heart was breaking, and his back bending low beneath the burden of accumulating toils, he murmured slowly:
“Return ye, O memories; return ye and quickly come like a whisper of God from His far off garden of joy! Die not in all the years that shall elapse before I shall burn new kisses upon new lips—kisses long feigned and passion-wrapt, nor let your spirit of love grow dim, nor your spirit of power abate! Come ye, as in time past, ye have come—sweeping away the clouds that gather over the head of earth’s lonely pilgrim, stilling the breakers that form in madness on life’s reefs, hushing the storms that roar and howl and threaten in the darkness! Still may ye come, ye echoes of the voice of God, bidding me be true, pleading with me to hope and trust, gently lifting my thoughts to the blue empyrean above, where there shall be no more night!”
“Colonel Masters!”
He looked up in astonishment.
“I have been looking for you all over the city, sir,” the young telegraph boy explained.
With trembling hand the white-haired editor took the brown message. His lips quivered as he tore it open. Would it be some new sorrow?