CHAPTER XXXII.

A BITTER ATONEMENT.

Night had fallen over the great city. The snow was falling fast, and the wind blowing with a fury that drove pedestrians on at a rapid pace. Among the many who thronged the streets was a woman ascending with slow and uneven steps the broad marble steps that led to the home of Scott Wilmer. She was closely veiled and dressed in black, and as she reached out to ring the door bell her hand shook with the cold. The great hall door opened in answer to the clear ring of the bell, and the woman was invited to enter. How bright and warm it seemed as she stepped on the soft carpet, after her wearisome walk through the snow.

"What can I do for you?" asked the boy who stood in waiting.

He had been taught to address all strangers in a polite manner, even though they were plainly dressed.

"Is Mr. Wilmer at home?" the woman asked in a faint voice.

"He is; do you wish to see him?"

"Yes, please tell him that a lady would like to see him alone."

"Some one in trouble, I suppose," thought Scott, as the boy went to him with the message. "Bring the woman in," he said.

"You may see him," the boy said, "come this way, madam." Then the door closed after her, and she stood trembling in Scott's presence. He placed an easy-chair, and she sank wearily on its cushions.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes, there is a great deal if you will," she said as she raised her veil.

She was trembling in every limb, and her lips had grown so stiff and white that she could scarcely speak, but she gasped at last after a mighty effort:

"Scott, don't you know me?"

"Great God, Irene, is it you?"

"Yes, may I come home again?"

"Home! Irene, do you call this home? Your home should be with the husband of your choice--the man you love."

"Oh, Scott, don't be cruel. I have come back to ask your forgiveness."

"My forgiveness?" Scott repeated bitterly.

"Yes, I have found how noble, and how much better than other men you are."

"I am very sorry," he said, with a hard, cold expression, "that you have found the goodness of my character when it is too late to answer your purpose."

"Oh, Scott, my husband, do not turn me away; can you not forgive me?"

"Yes, Irene, I will try to forgive you."

"And you will?" she said, starting to arise.

"I will forgive you all the wrong you have ever done me."

"And you will take me home again?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Scott, I wish I had known how good you were."

"I am very sorry for you."

"And, Scott, will you love me again?"

"Never."

"Can't you take me back? Don't you see how I have suffered?"

"Sin brings its own punishment, and your sin has brought you yours. I cannot undo the past, neither can you. I said I would forgive you, and I will."

"What is your forgiveness without your love? Don't you see that I never would have come back to you if I had not been forced to do so."

"I suppose you would not; but let me ask you what you have done with the man you loved--your affinity?"

"He has gone, left me alone."

"Then his love was not as deep and lasting as you fancied it would be."

A burning blush came over the pale face.

"Oh, Scott, it was a great mistake."

"_But you will see for yourself that it was the one great mistake of our lives_," Scott said, repeating the sentence conveyed to him in Irene's letter.

"Then you will not give me a home?"

"Yes, as long as I have a home you may share it."

"I cannot understand you."

Scott arose, and, standing before Irene with folded arms and compressed lips, she saw him again just as she had seen him in her dream, and so vividly was its terrors recalled, that a cry escaped her lips.

"Irene Wilmer," he said, "for such you are still, listen to me. The time was when I loved you--when I laid my whole soul at your feet. It was not, perhaps, with vain and foolish words of flattery that I won you, but I gave you the free and undivided love of an honest heart. You were fond of flattery, and in your vanity you were led to believe that another loved you better than I, and the man you should have spurned as you would the vilest of reptiles, was taken to your heart as though he were a king."

Irene closed her hands convulsively.

"You trampled upon the love I gave you, and, lured on to ruin by the wiles of a vain and hollow hearted fop, you spurned my love as though it were a worthless toy, while he, with his soft and senseless words of pretended love, caused you to cast aside that most sacred and ennobling of all a woman may possess--your honor."

Irene bowed her head upon the table beside her, as she said in a low voice:

"Stop."

"No, hear me through. I tried to keep you from sinning. I did all that man could do to stop your downward course, but you answered me only with sneering words, and when I asked you to give up the attentions of a man who had no right to your affections, you called me cruel and unfeeling, and the world looked in scorn upon my misery. You had no pity, and when I knew of your disgrace, I thought I should go mad. Day by day my love for you died away. Not because I had grown tired of your presence, but because you had grown tired of mine, and without respect I could not love. Another supplanted me in your affections, but still I tried to do my duty. You were bound to me by the laws of God and man, and never, until you of your own free will severed our lives, did I for one moment entertain the thought of casting you off."

"But I have suffered so much, and I come back to you asking your forgiveness."

"That I have freely granted. My home is yours while you desire it; and every comfort that you may ask shall be yours. No wish shall be denied, but my love for you, Irene, is dead."

She threw aside her bonnet, and clasping her hands, and falling upon her knees before him, she cried out:

"Oh, Scott, is there no way that I can bury the past, and regain the love that I have lost?"

"None," he answered firmly. "No, do not touch me. It is asking a great deal, Irene, and I am only human. How can you expect me to forget the sorrows which you have caused me? You come back to me a woman wrecked in body and soul, and you ask me to give again the love that you trampled to the dust."

"Oh, I did not know how much I was throwing away."

"You have learned it, then, when it is too late, and repentance comes when there is no chance for redress. Your home is here while you wish to remain. Try and be content if you can, but let us meet as strangers. When this interview is ended there is but one word to say."

"What is that?" she asked hurriedly.

"_Farewell!_"

"I shall have to die all alone, without even your voice to go with me down to the dark grave. Oh, God, it's terrible to die."

"There is but One who can go with you to lighten the darkness of the grave, Irene; to Him you must look for comfort. I am neither good nor wise enough to teach you how to go."

"Scott, will you promise me one favor?"

"If you will be seated you may talk further; you are growing tired."

"Yes, I am tired," she said, while her cheeks burned with excitement, "and if you will grant me one favor I will leave you."

"If it is my power to do so."

"It is that when I die you will sit beside me and watch me go out of life, and that you will give me just one good bye kiss--only one."

"I will promise to try," he said.

"Good bye," she said, as she arose, trembling in every limb.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Anywhere, out in the world, to die."

"No, you must not go away. Be seated, and I will see that you have a room prepared."

The old look was upon his face which she had seen so often--the look which compelled her to obey, without the uttering of an unkind word, or even a command, and he left her sitting where the soft glow of the gas light fell upon her white, wan features.

He sought his mother and June.

"Mother," he said, "Irene has returned."

June sprang to her feet.

"Scott," she said, "did you allow her to come in this house?"

"I did."

"You are crazy!"

"I think I have my reason," he said.

"You surely do not think of allowing her to remain?"

"Yes, as long as she lives."

In all June's life she had never shown as much indignation as then.

"Scott," she said, "if she remains I shall leave the house."

Scott did not speak.

"You told me once, you remember, that not even a wife should separate you and your sister, and now you will allow a low, degraded woman, who is not your wife, and has no claim on you, to again disgrace our home."

"Hush, June, you do not exactly understand the situation. When you understand the matter you will think as I do."

"I do not see how you can love her again."

"I have only pity for her, June."

"Why does she come to you for pity?"

"As a last resort."

"Scott, I do not see how you can have the patience to allow her to remain."

"My good little sister, you never had the heart to turn any one away who was in distress. Irene is ill, and were you to see her you would pity her as I do."

"Perhaps I would," said June, "but I never want to look on her face again, she has caused us so much trouble."

"That is true," said Scott, "but it should not debar us from doing our duty."

June could not see that it was their duty to help a woman who had brought so much misery to their home, and wrecked the life of her noble brother, but she knew upon a moment's reflection that Scott was right, and she concluded that she must be lacking in charity. She stood for a moment in deep thought, and then stepping to Scott's side, and laying her hand on his arm, she said:

"Scott, I did not wish to wound you, and I am sorry if I have done so, and whatever you think best I will try to do, but, ah, I never can love Irene or call her my sister again."

"I neither ask nor expect it, but it is our duty to care for her while she lives, and the most painful duty of life is often the most necessary to perform. I have neither love nor respect for the false woman who has come to me for shelter, but, God helping me, I will try to do my duty, whatever it may be, and if it be necessary for me to battle with the scoffs of the world in order to do my duty, my strength shall be sufficient to enable me to bear it."

"Oh, mother," said June, "it seems to me that if there is a just God He will find some way to remove the cause of my noble brother's sorrow."

"June," said Scott, "there is but one way. Do not even think about that. Come, Irene is very tired, and it is quite necessary that you attend to her wants by giving her every attention. Give her the room she used to have, and let her retire."

June followed Scott to his room, where she found Irene waiting.

"Dear June," she said as she started forward, as though to embrace her, but a look from Scott checked the movement.

"Irene," said Scott, "please bear in mind that you are a Wilmer only in name, and June is acting only from a sense of duty."

"Mrs. Wilmer," June said, in a voice as formal as though she were speaking to a stranger, "my brother has requested me to show you to your room. Will you come?"

"Oh, June," Irene sobbed, as she arose to her feet, and stood trembling before her; "you used to be so good to me; can't you forgive me, either?"

"Irene," she said, "I can be kind to you still, and I can do all that my noble brother requests me to do for you, but I never can overlook the terrible wrong you have done him. If he asks me to bring you a cup of cold water I can do it willingly, but I cannot say that I forgive you when I do not. I cannot be a hypocrite even for Scott. I do pity you, and will do all I can for you, but _I cannot say that I forgive you_."

She led Irene to her room--the same that she had occupied before she left their home, then she arranged the pillows, and turning down the snowy spread, bade Irene good-night, and left her to her own reflections.

"This is my reception. I know I have no right here, but I did think that June and mama would forgive me if Scott did not," Irene said as she slowly undressed herself. "June was always so tender hearted. I thought perhaps Scott might take me back, for some men will forgive anything for a beautiful face, but," she added, as she glanced in the tall mirror before her, "my beauty is fading; oh, dear, and I have lost it all through my own foolishness; and now I know that I might as well give up all hope of ever being loved by Scott again, for the look that he gave me meant even more than the words he uttered, though they were decided enough, Heaven knows, and there is no hope for me here--only to have a shelter. It is strange that my father acts as he does; but, oh, dear, I could neither live nor die with him. Well, I may as well make up my mind that there is nothing left for me but to lie here and die. Oh, God, how I dread it. I wish I could put it off a few years, but, oh, I can't. I must meet it. Oh, I could curse the man who brought me to this. After all, it was my own foolishness."

"Paul, Paul," she heard a voice calling.

"Come, Bob," said June, "Paul is not here; it is time to go to bed, too. What has started you to calling his name?"

Rene listened as the voice grew fainter; it kept calling: "Paul, Paul."

"I would like to see Bob," said Irene. "I wonder if he would not forgive me, either."

Irene had come home to die, and when the fact became known to the family that she was suffering, nothing was left undone that could add to her comfort. There was nothing that Scott might think she desired that was not ordered at once. He sent to her room the choicest of flowers and the finest fruits that were to be found; he sent books that he knew she had admired, and he employed a noted physician whom he urged to use his best endeavors to bring her back to health, but he never entered her room. June and Mrs. Wilmer often sat by her bed, and read to her, to cheer her lonely hours, but there never was a word sent from Scott. It was his custom to inquire after her condition each day, and that was all that he ever spoke of her. Thus the time wore on, bringing Irene Wilmer nearer the grave. There were many beautiful bouquets sent to her room and when she would inquire who remembered her in that way, the reply invariably was Scott or Miss Elsworth, the authoress, whom she had met years before at a summer resort. Indeed, every one else, who knew of her return, took not the slightest notice of her home coming, and those who were aware of the fact wondered that Scott would be foolish enough to take her back.

Irene thought that such a noted woman as Miss Elsworth was becoming, must be very kind to think of a sick person like her, but she was foolish enough to think that the sole reason was because she was a Wilmer, though she did not know how she could have known anything about her, but concluded it was all owing to Scott's riches, that Miss Elsworth had sought her out. She told June she would like so much to see Miss Elsworth, and after many entreaties, June pacified her by saying that she would have Guy find a way, which he did. Miss Elsworth came and Irene requested that she might see her entirely alone, which request was granted.

"I knew you must be good," Rene said, "or you would never have taken the trouble to send me such beautiful flowers. I wanted to tell you how lonely I am. You know, my husband, that is Scott, never comes in the room. He has never been here since I was ill."

"Your husband does not visit you?" said Miss Elsworth in surprise. "How sad."

"Well, I suppose it is all right, for, of course, you have heard of--my leaving him."

"Yes," Miss Elsworth replied.

"I was sure you would not speak of my foolishness, but I did not know how good Scott was until it was too late to repent. I know, now, he is one of the best men in all the world, or he never would have given me a place to die in. I don't deserve it, and I know I won't want it very long, but some men would never have allowed me to enter the house. I am sorry, oh, so sorry, that I did not know how good he was; I might now have been well and happy."

"Perhaps you will recover," said Miss Elsworth, cheerfully.

"Oh, no, I shall die, and the time is not far off," said Rene, mournfully. "I hope he will find a woman who will love him, and be better to him than I have been, for you cannot begin to think how kind he is. I never knew until I saw how he repaid me for my wickedness."

"Do not be disheartened; you may be happy yet."

"Why," she said, impatiently, "don't I tell you I am going to die? The doctor says so, and the only thing to do is to get ready for it when it comes, but oh, how I dread it. It must be awful to die and not know what you are going to."

"Yes, that is the most terrible part of all."

"I know by some of your books that you must be a good Christian."

"Oh, no, I am not a good Christian, but I try to live up to the commandments and the golden rule."

"I wish I could be like Scott's father; he wasn't a bit afraid to die."

"Perhaps he led a Christian life."

"Oh, yes, he did; he was good to everybody, but I have been very wicked. I don't see how I can help it now."

"You cannot undo what has been done, but you can do better in future."

"The future? Why, there is no future for me but the grave."

Irene, like every other coward at heart, surrendered only when she saw danger staring her in the face. Had her health been given her she would have spared neither pains nor expense to have revenge on Max, but since disease had chained her down, and there was no escape from the destroyer, she began, like the condemned criminal, to confess her guilt as the only means of obtaining mercy.

Two months later Irene lay dying. She had asked to see her husband, and he had granted the request. She wanted him all alone that she might ask his forgiveness. He visited her for the first time since her return, and she had spoken words in confession that made even the strong heart of Scott almost cease its beating.

"Irene," Scott said, "is it possible that all you have told me is true? Can it be true?"

"It is, and I am sorry I deceived you," she said, while the thin white hands reached out toward him. "Oh, Scott, if you will forgive me."

"Irene, you have wronged me most bitterly, and I forgive you, but remember that man's forgiveness can avail you nothing in the darkness where you are going. You must look to God. He alone can forgive your sins and lead you through the dark valleys to the light of eternal day."

"And you will, with your own hands, plant just one flower on my grave in remembrance of her you once called your wife."

"I will," said Scott, and then he turned away with a face full of agony.

Three days later the family was summoned to watch Irene pass the gates of death, and then the false heart was stilled forever. They robed her in a costly shroud and placed her in a beautiful casket, and in death as in life she was lovely to look upon, and Scott, with compressed lips and tearless eyes, followed her to the grave as chief mourner.