Then, as the cord broke in my grasp and I gathered the letters
from the lid of the desk, a word or two flashed back at me through the
torn edges of the envelopes, and I realized that they were love letters
written, I surmised, some fifteen years ago, by Mr. Vanderbridge to his
first wife.
"It may hurt her to see them," I thought, "but I don't dare destroy
them. There is nothing I can do except give them to her."
As I left the room, carrying the letters and the ashes of the flowers,
the idea of taking them to the husband instead of to the wife, flashed
through my mind. Then--I think it was some jealous feeling about the
phantom that decided me--I quickened my steps to a run down the
staircase.
"They would bring her back. He would think of her more than ever," I
told myself, "so he shall never see them. He shall never see them if I
can prevent it." I believe it occurred to me that Mrs. Vanderbridge
would be generous enough to give them to him--she was capable of rising
above her jealousy, I knew--but I determined that she shouldn't do it
until I had reasoned it out with her. "If anything on earth would bring
back the Other One for good, it would be his seeing these old letters,"
I repeated as I hastened down the hall.
Mrs. Vanderbridge was lying on the couch before the fire, and I noticed
at once that she had been crying.
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