“No, you can not give us Oregon,” I answered.
“We are men, not panders. We fight; we
do not traffic thus. But you have given me Elisabeth!”
“My rival!” She smiled at me in spite
of all. “But no, not my rival. Yes,
I have already given you her and given you to her.
To do that—to atone, as I said, for my
attempt to part you—well, I will give Mr.
Pakenham the key that Sir Richard Pakenham of England
lately held. I told you a woman pays, body
and soul! In what coin fate gave me, I will pay
it. You think my morals mixed. No, I tell
you I am clean! I have only bought my own peace
with my own conscience! Now, at last, Helena
von Ritz knows why she was born, to what end!
I have a work to do, and, yes, I see it now—my
journey to America after all was part of the plan
of fate. I have learned much—through
you, Monsieur.”
Hurriedly she turned and left me, passing through
the heavy draperies which cut off the room where stood
the great satin couch. I saw her cast herself
there, her arms outflung. Slow, deep and silent
sobs shook all her body.
“Madam! Madam!” I cried to her.
“Do not! Do not! What you have done
here is worth a hundred millions of dollars, a hundred
thousand of lives, perhaps. Yes, that is true.
It means most of Oregon, with honor, and without war.
That is true, and it is much. But the price paid—it
is more than all this continent is worth, if it cost
so much as that Nor shall it!”
Black, with a million pin-points of red, the world
swam around me. Millions of dead souls or souls
unborn seemed to gaze at me and my unhesitating rage.
I caught up the scroll which bore England’s
signature, and with one clutch cast it in two pieces
on the floor. As it lay, we gazed at it in silence.
Slowly, I saw a great, soft radiance come upon her
face. The red pin-points cleared away from my
own vision.
THE STORY OF HELENA VON RITZ
There is in every true
woman’s heart a spark of heavenly fire,
which beams and blazes
in the dark hours of adversity.—Washington
Irving.
“But Madam; but Madam—” I tried
to begin. At last, after moments which seemed
to me ages long, I broke out: “But once,
at least, you promised to tell me who and what you
are. Will you do that now?”
“Yes! yes!” she said. “Now
I shall finish the clearing of my soul. You,
after all, shall be my confessor.”
We heard again a faltering footfall in the hallway.
I raised an eyebrow in query.
“It is my father. Yes, but let him come.
He also must hear. He is indeed the author of
my story, such as it is.
“Father,” she added, “come, sit
you here. I have something to say to Mr. Trist.”
She seated herself now on one of the low couches,
her hands clasped across its arm, her eyes looking
far away out of the little window, beyond which could
be seen the hills across the wide Potomac.
