“Oh, I’m sure you will think it the merriest news,” replied Mrs. March, with beaming good nature. “Maxwell—I’m married!”
Fair looked at her, stupefied. One expression followed another on his face, and then, when he had secured his usual genial expression, he said: “Not really? Well, all I can say is—one man is happy. But explain.”
“Wasn’t it just like me to slip over to Brussels and be married quietly? You know I hate the regulation fuss. And heaven has given me the love of a man whom I am sure you will love and respect when you know him. All heart and soul and honor—a knight and a poet.”
“Believe me, my dear friend,” answered Fair, “I wish you all the happiness that your good heart deserves. When may we congratulate you in a public manner? And what are we to call you henceforth?”
“It will seem strange to call me by my new name, won’t it—and a foreign name, too? My husband’s name is Don Pablo Mendes, formerly of Santiago de Cuba,” said Mrs. March, with a flush of happiness which blanched out and became the pallor of horror as she saw the effect on Fair.
He dropped the portmanteau, which he had picked up, stared as if stunned for a moment, and then with a tremendous effort to spare the wretched woman as long as possible, he said huskily: “I beg your pardon—the fact is, I am far from well—Good-bye!”
“I’m so sorry,” returned Mrs. March, satisfied that his singular conduct was really the result of a bad turn. “But tell me before you go, Maxwell—do you know my dear Spanish boy?”
“I can’t say that I do,” he stammered; “but really I shall miss my train—good-bye,” and before she could ask him anything more he was striding across the park.
“What strange behavior!” she said to herself as she watched him. “Maxwell of all men, too! The mirror of good form—and the one man who never fails to say the right thing at the right time. Ah, here he comes back to make the proper amends. Back so soon?” she asked as Fair rejoined her with his hat in his hand. “Forget something—or did you, like a good fellow, come back to say just one kind word?”
“Mrs. March,” he began, speaking with strange dignity and pain. “I have come back to implore your pardon. I lied to you. We shall never see each other again, and it was dastardly in me to try to shield myself from the horrible duty which as one of your oldest friends I owe you—the last thing, also, that I can ever do for you. You are a true woman and a great soul. Be great enough to face what I have now to tell you. I do know Pablo Mendes—and if you have not told any of your friends about your unspeakably deplorable marriage, for God’s sake do not tell them. You will understand why I say this, and bless me for saying it soon—you will thank me until your dying day. Your secret is, of course, sacred with me. Mrs. March, brace yourself now—life is a battle for us all—and victory is not for them that fight, but for them that bear—so hear me. You will never see your husband again. Give me your hand—so—are you ill? Courage now for a moment. Mendes is dead. I—Somebody, in there! Quick! Mrs. March has fainted!”