FullReads

“Good Lord!” he gasped.

“Bad news, Mr. Rollins?” asked the clerk sympathetically, but the stricken, bewildered man did not answer.

What did it mean? A vast faintness attacked him as the truth began to penetrate. Out of the whirling mystery came the astounding, ponderous realization that he had blundered, that he had wronged her, that he had accused her of–Oh, that dear, stricken figure in the hallway above!

He leaped to the staircase. Three steps at a time he flew back to the scene of the miserable tragedy. What he thought, what he felt as he rushed into the hallway can only be imagined. She was gone–heartbroken, killed! And she had kissed him and said she loved him!

A light shone through the transoms over the doors that led into her apartments. Quaking with fear, he ran down the hall and beat a violent tattoo upon her parlor door. Again he rapped, crazed by remorse, fear, love, pity, shame, and a hundred other emotions.

“Who is it?” came in stifled tones from within.

“It is I–Rossiter–I mean Rollins! I must see you–now! For pity’s sake, let me in!”

“How dare you–” she began shrilly; but he was not to be denied.

“If you don’t open this door I’ll kick it in!” he shouted. “I must see you!”

After a moment the door flew open and he stood facing her. She was like a queen. Her figure was as straight as an arrow, her eyes blazing. But there had been tears in them a moment before.

“Another insult!” she exclaimed, and the scorn in her voice was withering. He paused abashed, for the first time realizing that he had hurt her beyond reparation. His voice faltered and the tears flew to his eyes.

“I don’t know what to say to you. It has been a mistake–a frightful mistake–and I don’t know whether you’ll let me explain. When I got downstairs I found this telegram and–for heaven’s sake, let me tell you the wretched story. Don’t turn away from me! You shall listen to me if I have to hold you!” His manner changed suddenly to the violent, imperious forcefulness of a man driven to the last resort.

“Must I call for help?” she cried, thoroughly alarmed, once more the weak woman, face to face, as she thought, with an insane man.

“I love you better than my own life, and I’ve hurt you terribly. I’m not crazy, Helen! But I’ve been a fool, and I’ll go crazy if you don’t give me a chance to explain.”

Whether she gave the chance or no he took it, and from his eager, pleading lips raced the whole story of his connection with the Wharton affair from first to last.

He humbled himself, accused himself, ridiculed himself, and wound up by throwing himself upon her mercy, uttering protestations of the love which had really been his undoing.

She heard him through without a word. The light in her eyes changed; the fear left them and the scorn fled. Instead there grew, by stages, wonder, incredulity, wavering doubt and–joy. She understood him and she loved him! The awful horror of that meeting in the hallway was swept away like unto the transformation scene in the fairy spectacle.

When he fell upon his knee and sought to clasp her fingers in his cold hand she smiled, and, stooping over, placed both hands on his cheeks and kissed him.

What followed her kiss of forgiveness may be more easily imagined than told.

“You see it was perfectly natural for me to mistake you for Mrs. Wharton,” he said after awhile. “You had the gray jacket, the sailor hat, the purple parasol, and you are beautiful. And, besides all that, you were found red-handed in that ridiculous town of Fossingford. Why shouldn’t I have suspected you with such a preponderance of evidence against you? Anybody who would get off of a night train in Fossingford certainly ought to be ashamed of something.”

“But Fossingford is on the map, isn’t it? One has a perfect right to get off where she likes, hasn’t she, provided it is on the map?”