“Last night we were dancing—all of us—at the ball. I can scarcely believe it was less than twelve hours ago! The calendar on my desk has a motto for each leaf. To-day’s is this: ‘Every man carries his fate on a riband about his neck.’ Last night I would have smiled at that, perhaps; to-day I say to myself, ‘It’s true—it’s true!’ Two little hours ago I could have sworn that whatever happened to me, Sassoon would suffer no harm. “Judith, I could not avoid the meeting. You will know the circumstances, and will see that it was forced upon me. But though we met on the field, I kept my promise. Sassoon did not fall by my hand.” She had begun to tremble so that the paper shook in her hands, and from her breast, shattered by her quick breathing, the brown jessamine petals dusted [Pg 412]down in her lap. It was some moments before she could calm herself sufficiently to read on. “He fired at the signal and the shot went wide. I threw my pistol on the ground. Then—whether maddened by my refusal to fire, I can not tell—he turned his weapon all at once and shot himself through the breast. It was over in an instant. The seconds did not guess—do not even now, for it happened but an hour ago. As the code decrees, their backs were turned when the shots were fired. But there were circumstances I can not touch upon to you which made them disapprove—which made my facing him just then seem unchivalrous. I saw it in Bristow’s face, and liked him the better for it, even while it touched my pride. They could not know, of course, that I did not intend to fire. Well, you and they will know it now! And Bristow has my pistol; he will find it undischarged—thank God, thank God! “But will that matter to you? If you loved Sassoon, I shall always in your mind stand as the indirect cause of his death! It is for this reason I am going away—I could not bear to look in your accusing eyes and hear you say it. Nor could I bear to stay here, a reminder to you of such a horror. If you love me, you will write and call me back to you. Oh, Judith, Judith, my own dear love! I pray God you will!” She put the letter down and laid her face upon it. “Beauty! Beauty!” she whispered, dry-eyed. “I never knew! I never knew! But it would have [Pg 413]made no difference, darling. I would have forgiven you anything—everything! You know that, now, dear! You have been certain of it all these years that have been so empty, empty to me!” But when the faded rose-colored gown and the poor time-yellowed slippers had been laid back in the haircloth trunk; when, her door once more unbolted, she lay in her bed in the dim glow of the reading-lamp, with her curling silvery hair drifting across the pillow and the letter beneath it, at last the tears came coursing down her cheeks.