"One thing in particular helped me to keep my mind on earth and remind me of the far-reaching effects of wrong-doing. I have said that Hilary, your father, was extremely fond of Adrian. Well, somehow he got the idea into his head that I had thrown him over because of his poverty, and he never forgave me for it. Till his dying day he believed that I really loved Adrian most but was afraid to marry him. Over and over again I told him the truth, taking a sort of fierce pleasure in being able to tell any one that I had never loved any one but Milton Leffert.
"'Then why did you let Adrian make love to you?' Hilary would answer, 'and why did you make him burn that telegram? I know, I heard you as I walked down the path.' Nothing I could say ever made him understand. And the hardest part of it was that I couldn't exactly blame him for not being convinced.
"Taking him at that impressionable time of life the thing had a tremendous effect on him. The idea grew into him that no human feeling could stand the test of hard facts; that that was the way love worked out in real life. From that time on his mind steadily developed and his soul steadily dwindled. He became practical, brilliant, worldly wise, heartless. We grew gradually more and more estranged; you seldom heard him mention my name, I suppose? That's why you never heard before what I've been telling you, or at least the whole truth of it.... And so, as he consciously modeled certain of his mannerisms after those of Adrian he unconsciously grew more and more like him in character; and I had the satisfaction of watching the change and realizing that it was due, in part at least, to me. And the thought of how I unwillingly hurt him has made me all the more anxious to make reparation by being of service to his two boys. Perhaps you can imagine some of the things I've feared for them...."
Here Aunt Selina broke off, choked by a sudden gust of emotion. James said nothing, but sat staring straight in front of him. Presently his aunt, steadying her voice to its accustomed pitch, went on:
"Well, James, I told this to Beatrice, much as I've told it to you, though not at so great length, and I could see it made an impression on her. She came over and sat down by me and took my hand without speaking.
"'You lived through all that?' she said at last, 'and you never told any one?'
"'Why should I have told?' I answered. 'There was no one to tell. I've only told you because I thought it might have some bearing on your own case.'
"She caught her breath, gave a sort of little sigh. And that sigh said, as plainly as words, 'Dear me, I was so interested in your story I almost forgot I must get ready to go to New York to-morrow.' It was a setback; I saw I had overestimated the effect I had made. But I set my teeth and went on, determined not to give her up yet.
"'Beatrice,' I said, 'I haven't told you all this for the pleasure of telling it nor to amuse you. I've told it to you because I wanted to show you how such a course of action as you're about to take works out in real life. There is a strange madness that comes over women sometimes, especially over strong women; a sort of obsession that makes them think they are too good for the men they love. I know it, I've felt it—I've suffered under it, if ever woman did! It may seem irresistible while it lasts, but oh, the remorse that comes afterward! Beatrice, how many times do you suppose I've lived over each snubbing speech I made to Milton Leffert? How often do you suppose my laugh at him when he told me about the tax board has rung through my ears? Those are the memories that stab the soul, Beatrice; don't let there be any such in your life!'