of his old desires. That was but withered leaves, spattered with the blood of those who lost. He had turned from it, and now his steps sought another conquest and another reward. He must strive for a goal unseen, but more real and more worthy than the little crowns of little victories.
His somber thoughts left him refreshed, as if from a bath of deep, clear waters. His spirit felt clean and elated as it rose from the depths. It was with a smile that he pushed back his chair and rose from the table where, for a full hour, he had sat in silent self-communing. He still smiled as he entered the motor and was driven to Mrs. Marteen’s.
He found her awaiting him, with outstretched hands, and the look in her eyes that he always longed for–the look he had divined rather than seen on that day of days, when the Past had been renounced and consumed. There was no embarrassment in their meeting. True, there had been daily exchange of letters during the months of her enforced exile; but they had been only friendly, surface tokens, giving no real hint of the realities beneath. But they had grown toward one another, not apart. It was as if they had never been sundered; as if all the experiences of all the intervening days had been experiences in common.
He gazed at her happily now, rejoicing in the firmness of her step, the brightness of her eyes, the healthy color of her skin. She came with him gladly at his suggestion and they drove in silence through the crowded streets and the silence was in truth, golden. At the door of the great house he descended, gave her his hand and conducted her quickly through the vast, soft-lighted hall to his own sanctum. He closed the door quietly and pressed the electric switch. Instantly the mellow lights glowed above the portrait, which throbbed in response, a glittering gem of warmth and beauty.
Mrs. Marteen’s body stiffened; the color receded from her face, leaving it ashen. Her great eyes dilated.
“Do you know why it is there?” he asked at length in a whisper.
“Yes,” she murmured. “We have traveled the same road–you and I. I understand.”
He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “You don’t know all that this picture recalls to me–and I hope you will never know; but you and I,” he said slowly, weighing his words, “are not of the breed of those who cry out with remorse. We are of those who live differently. That is the constant reminder of what _was_. I do not want to forget. I want to remember. Every time the iron enters my soul I shall know the more keenly that I have at last a soul.”
Again they fell silent.
“According to the accepted code I suppose I should make a clean breast of it, even to Dorothy, and go into retirement,” she said at length. “I have thought of that, too; but I cannot _feel_ it. I want to be active; to be able to use myself for betterment; make of myself an example of good and not of evil. What I did was because of what I was. I am that no longer, and my expression must be of the new thing that has become me–a soul!” she said reverently.
“A soul,” he repeated. “It has come to me, too. And what is left to me of life has no place for regrets. I have that which I must live up to–I _shall_ live up to it.”
“We have, indeed, traveled the same road; but you–have led me.” She looked at him with complete comprehension.
“We will travel the new road together,” he said finally, “hand in hand.”
THE END