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diff --git a/old/62707-h/62707-h.htm b/old/62707-h/62707-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index a8bbfbc..0000000 --- a/old/62707-h/62707-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6130 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Furnace of Earth, by Hallie Erminie Rives. - </title> -<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2,h3 { - text-align: center; - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} -h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} - -div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; page-break-after: always;} -div.titlepage p {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} - - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both; -} - - -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} -hr.tiny {width: 20%; margin-left: 40%; margin-right: 40%;} - - - -.pagenum { - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; -} - - - - -.ph1 {text-align: center; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;} - -.bbox {border: solid 2px;margin-left: 35%; margin-right: 35%;} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.right {text-align: right;} - -.indentright {margin-right: 5em;} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -.antiqua { - font-family: Blackletter, Fraktur, Textur, "Old English Text MT", "Olde English Mt", "Olde English", Gothic, serif, sans-serif;} - - -.xlarge {font-size: 150%;} -.large {font-size: 125%;} - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - -.poetry-container {text-align: center;} -.poetry {display: inline-block; text-align: left;} -.poetry .verse {text-indent: -2.5em; padding-left: 3em;} -.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} -.poetry .verseright { text-align: right;} -.poetry .indent {text-indent: 1.5em;} -.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: 2.5em;} -.poetry .indent3 {text-indent: 11.5em;} -.poetry .first {text-indent: -2.5em; padding-left: 2.5em;} - -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - padding:0.5em; - margin-bottom:5em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; } - </style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Furnace of Earth, by Hallie Ermine Rives - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: A Furnace of Earth - -Author: Hallie Ermine Rives - -Release Date: July 19, 2020 [EBook #62707] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A FURNACE OF EARTH *** - - - - -Produced by D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - -<h1>A FURNACE OF EARTH</h1> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> - -<p><span class="xlarge">A FURNACE OF EARTH</span></p> - -<p>BY<br /> - -<span class="large">HALLIE ERMINIE RIVES</span><br /> - -<i>Author of “Smoking Flax,” etc.</i></p> - -<p> </p> -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">As silver tried in a furnace of earth, purified seven times.</div> -<div class="verseright">—DAVID.</div> -</div></div> - -<p> </p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_logo.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p>INDIANAPOLIS<br /> -<span class="large">THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY</span><br /> -PUBLISHERS</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1900,<br /> -By The Camelot Company,<br /> -New York.</span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<p class="center">TO<br /> -R. W.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><i>Their first estate of joy they leave,</i></div> -<div class="indent"><i>So pure, impassioned and elate,</i></div> -<div class="verse"><i>And learn from Piety to grieve</i></div> -<div class="indent"><i>Because their hearts are passionate.</i></div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verseright">—The Revelation of St. Love the Divine.</div> -</div></div></div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">THE ELEMENTS.</h2></div> - -<hr class="tiny" /> - -<h3>EARTH, AIR AND WATER.</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Along</span> the wavering path which followed the -twisting summit of the cliffs toiled a little figure. -His face was tanned, and from under a brown -tangle of hair looked eyes blue and fearless.</p> - -<p>He had walked a mile, and home lay a mile -further, where white-painted cottages glowed -against the close green velvet of the hills. The -way ran staggeringly, and the boy was tired.</p> - -<p>A group of ragged children tossed up their -caps and shouted from the cluster of fishermen’s -huts set further back from the sea; he did not -heed them, but seated himself on the tufted panic-grass -and turned his eyes seaward. The hot sun -slanted silver-bright flashes from the moody<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span> -water, and whistling swallows, beyond the cliff-edge, -soared and dropped against the blue of the -sky, like black balls from a juggler’s hands. A -light breeze, lifting, ruffled with a million ripples -the gray surge, played along the path in scurrying -dust-whorls and cooled his hot cheeks.</p> - -<p>On its heels came stealthily a yellowish dimness; -a sullen bank of cloud crept swiftly along -the northern horizon. From a thin, black line, it -grew to a pall, rising ominous and threatening. -Quick flashes pricked its jagged edge. Beneath -it the sea turned to a weight of liquid lead.</p> - -<p>The boy Richard rose fascinated, his eyes upon -the advancing squall, his ears open to the rising -breathing of the waves, troubled by under-dreams. -His lips were parted eagerly, and his -browned hands clutched at the brim of his hat. -Often and often, from his window, he had seen -the power of the storm; now its near and intimate -presence throbbed through him.</p> - -<p>The foremost gust struck him with sudden -fury, turning him about as though with strong<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span> -hands upon his shoulders, and tearing his hat -from his grasp. He caught his breath with a -sense of outraged dignity; then, bending his head -resolutely to the onslaught, he stumbled forward. -The air was full of scudding mist-streaks, and -twisted roots caught at his feet in the half-darkness. -The fierce wind tore with its claws at the -little jacket, buttoned bravely, and tossed the -damp, rebellious hair. The fishermen’s huts lay -just behind him, a dry and beckoning shelter; -before him, for a few paces, stretched the path -leading into ghostly obscurity. The boy bent -low, bracing his legs doggedly against the stubble, -and foot by foot went on along that lone mile -into the storm.</p> - -<p>On a sudden the blurred sea-view was swallowed -up. The wind swooped, grasping at his -ankles. It picked up pebbles and flung them, -howling, against his body. They stung like heavy -hail. It snapped off unwilling twigs from the -cringing bushes and dashed them into the childish -face. But he did not retreat. What was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span> -wind that it should force him back! A mighty -determination was in his little soul. His teeth -were tight clenched, and his legs ached with the -strain. The blast caught away his breath and he -turned his back to it. At the moment it seemed -to lull, tempting him to go its way, but he would -not yield.</p> - -<p>Then the tempest gathered all its forces and -hurled them spitefully, hatefully against him, -barring, lashing him cruelly, thrusting him backward. -He dropped upon his knees in the path, -giving not an inch. The wind, sopped with heavy -rain, fell upon him bodily. He stretched himself -flat, winding his fingers among the roots of the -wiry grasses, struck down, bruised, but still unconquered.</p> - -<p>A lone, pied gull, careening sidelong through -the wind-rifts, roused in him a helpless frenzy of -anger and resentment. He clenched his tiny fist -and shook it at the sky, choking, gasping, sobbing, -great tears of impotent rage and mortification -blown across his cheeks.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p> - - -<h3>FIRE.</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> red-gold of the sun still warmed the late -summer dusk. The fading light sifted between -the curtains of the window and touched lovingly -the checkered coverlid, moulding into soft outline -the rounded little limbs beneath. The long -hair spread goldenly across the pillow, and the -wide brown eyes were open.</p> - -<p>Old Anne was going to die—old Anne with the -ugly wrinkled face and bony fingers from which -all the children ran. She was going to die that -night. Margaret had heard it whispered among -the servants. That very same night while she -herself was asleep in bed! Her soul was going -to leave her body and fly up to God.</p> - -<p>She wondered how it would look, but she knew -it would be very beautiful. Its back would not -be bent, nor its face drawn with shining burn-scars.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> -It would be young and straight, and it -would have wings—long, white wings, such as -the angels had in the big stained-glass window -over the choir-box in the chapel. It would have -a ring of light around its head, such as the moon -had on misty evenings. It would go just at the -moment when old Anne died, and those who -watched close enough might see. Would it -speak? Or would it go so swiftly that it could -only smile for a good-by? She wondered if its -eyes would be kindly and blue, not dim and -watery as Anne’s had been. Her own face was -smoother and prettier than Anne’s, but her eyes -were dark. Angels always had blue eyes. Its -face would be turned up toward heaven, where it -was going, and its wings would make a soft, -whispering sound, like a pigeon’s when it starts -to fly. One would have to be very quick, but if -one were there at just the right minute, one could -see it.</p> - -<p>Oh, if <i>she</i> only could! She felt quite sure she -would not be afraid of Anne then, knowing that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> -she was just going to be an angel! If they -would only let her! She was so little, and they -would be watching, so that maybe they would not -notice her. Perhaps she could slip in quietly on -tiptoe, and then she would see a real shining soul, -such as she herself had inside of her, and which -she loved to imagine sometimes looked out of her -eyes at her from the looking-glass. A breathless -eagerness seized her, and she sat up in the bed, -hugging her knees and resting her chin upon -them.</p> - -<p>She listened a moment; the house was very -still. Then she threw down the covers, and -jumped in her bare feet to the floor. She sat -down on the rug in her white nightgown, and -pulled on her stockings with nervous haste, and -her shoes, leaving them unbuttoned and flapping. -Then she slipped into her muslin dress, fastening -it behind at the neck and waist, and opened the -door, tugging at the big brass knob, and quaking -at its complaining creaks. No one was in sight, -and the little figure, with its bright floating hair<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> -and rosy skin showing between its shoulders like -a belated locust, stole fearfully down the dim -stairway, along the deserted hall, and sidling -through the half-opened door, stepped out among -the long-fingered glooms of the standing shrubbery.</p> - -<p>She hesitated a moment, frightened at the outdoor -dark, and then, catching her breath, ran -quickly around the corner of the house, and -down the drive toward the low, clapboarded -structure beside the stables, where a lighted window-shade -with moving shadows pointed out the -room of that solemn presence.</p> - -<p>The night air was warm and heavy, and its -door stood wide. She crept up close and listened. -Between low-muttered words of subdued conversation, -she heard a slow and labored breathing—a -breathing now stopping, now beginning -again, and with a curious rattle in it which somehow -awed her. From where she crouched, she -could see only the foot of the bed, with its tall,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> -bare posts. There seemed to be expectancy in -the hushed voices within, and a quick fear seized -her lest she should miss the wonderful sight. -Quivering with eagerness, she rose to her feet, -and with her fascinated gaze seeking out the old -face on the pillow, stepped straight forward into -the room.</p> - -<p>She heard a rising murmur of astonishment, -of protest, and before her light-blinded eyes had -found their way, felt herself seized roughly, unceremoniously, -lifted bodily off her feet and -borne out into the night. She heard, through the -passionate resentment of her childish mind, the -soothing endearments of Jem the gardener, and -she struggled to loose herself, beating at his face -with her hands and sobbing with helpless suffocation -of anger.</p> - -<p>A frightened maid met them at the door and -took her from him, carrying her to her room to -undress her and sit by her till she should fall -asleep. No assurance that old Anne would soon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> -be happy in heaven comforted her. No one -understood, and she was too hurt to explain what -she had wanted.</p> - -<p>So she lay through the long hours, the bitter -tears of grief and disappointment wetting her -pillow.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">I.</h2></div> - - -<p>The air above the shelving stretches of sand-beach -shimmered and dilated with the heat of the -August afternoon, as Margaret walked just beyond -the yeasty edge of the receding waves. -There was little wind stirring, and the cool damp -was pleasant under her feet. She had left the -hotel behind, and the straggling line of bobbing, -dark-blue specks, which indicated the habitual -bathers, was small in the distance.</p> - -<p>A blue-and-silver bound book was in her hand, -and her gray tweed skirt and soft jacket, with a -bunch of drooping crimson roses at the waist, -made a grateful spot upon the white glare. Summer -sun and sea-wind had given a clear olive to -her face and a scarlet radiance to her full lips, -softly curved. Her hair, in waving masses of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> -flush-brown, flowed out from beneath her straw -hat, tempting a breeze.</p> - -<p>To her left were tumbled monotonous, low -dunes, and beyond them the torn clayey bank, -gashed by storms; to her right, only barren -stretch of sea and sweep of sky.</p> - -<p>At a bight of the shore, under the long, curved -hole of a pine, leaning to its fall from the high -bank through which half its naked roots struck -sprangling, ran a zigzag footpath to a little -grove, where hemlock and stunted oak grew -thickly. Up she climbed, poising lightly, and -drawing herself to the last step by grasping a -sprawling creeper. The green coolness refreshed -her, and there was more movement in the higher -air.</p> - -<p>She followed the twists of the path among the -low bushes clustering in front of a sparse clearing. -Facing her, in the edge of the shade, where -the light fell in mottled shadows upon a soft, -springy floor of dead pine needles, with its wide -arms laced in the rasping boughs of the scrub-oaks<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> -around it, stood an unwieldy wooden cross, -hewed roughly, its base socketed in stone and its -horizontal bar held in place by a rust-red bolt. A -cracked and crazy bench, also hewn, was set beneath, -and just above this was nailed a heavy -board in which was deeply cut this half-effaced -inscription:</p> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="center"><span class="antiqua"> -Here Lies<br /> -The Body of an Unknown Woman<br /> -Drowned<br /> -In the Wreck of the Schooner Bartlett,<br /> -May 9, 1871.</span></p></div> - -<p>and below it, in larger characters, now almost -obliterated by gray-and-yellow stains:</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="large"><span class="antiqua">Ora Pro Anima Sua.</span></span></p> - -<p>This was Margaret’s favorite spot. She preferred -its melancholy solitude to the vivacious -companionship of the cottage piazza, and its -quiet tones to the bizarre hues of the beach pavilion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> -It lay removed from the usual paths, -reached only by a wide detour, across bush-tangled -wastes or the long, uncomfortable walk -up-shore on the hot, yielding sand. Now she -sank upon the seat with a deep sigh of pleasure, -letting her book fall open in her lap. Her eyes -roved far off across the gray-green heave where -a buccaneering fish-hawk slanted craftily.</p> - -<p>A deeper light was in them as they fell upon -the open printed leaf:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - -<div class="first">“For Love is fine and tense as silver wire,</div> -<div class="verse">Fierce as white lightning, glorious as drums</div> -<div class="verse">And beautiful as snow-mountains. Swift she is</div> -<div class="verse">As leaping flame and calm as winter stars.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>Its chaste beauty had long ago stamped the -passage upon her memory; to-day the lines -hymned themselves to a subtle, splendid music.</p> - -<p>Tossing the volume suddenly to one side, her -hands loosed her belt. She held the limp band -movelessly a moment, and then bent her face -eagerly over it. Under her fingers the filigree of -the clasp slid back, disclosing a portrait. It was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> -that of a man, young, resolute-faced, with brown, -wavy hair parted in the middle, and candid forehead. -It was rugged and masterful, but with a -sweetness of lips and a tender, gray softness of -proud eyes that bespoke him not more a doer -than a dreamer.</p> - -<p>As she looked, her lips parted and a faint color -crept up her neck, showing brightly against the -auburn hollows of her hair. She fondled and -petted the ivory with her hands, and then raised -it to her lips, kissing it, murmuring to it, and -folding it over and over in the warm moistness -of her breath.</p> - -<p>Holding it against her face, she walked up and -down the open space with quick, pushing steps, -her free hand stripping the leaves from the -sweeping bush fronds, her hat fallen back, swaying -from the knotted streamers caught under the -slipping coil between her shoulders. Stopping at -length in front of the bench, she hung the belt -upon a corner of the carven board, its violet -weave tinging the weathered grain and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> -painted circlet glowing like a jewelled period for -the massive lettering.</p> - -<p>With one knee on the warped seat, she read -again the fading sentences.</p> - -<p>“An unknown woman.” Gone down into the -cold green depths! Perhaps with a dear, glowing -secret in her heart, a one name bubbling from -her lips, a new quivering something in her soul, -which the waters could not still! That body buffeted -and tossed by rearing breakers, to lie nameless -in a neglected grave; that soul, its earthly -longing forgotten, to go forever unregretful of -what it had cried for with all the might of its -human passion!</p> - -<p>Ah! but <i>did it</i>? If death touched her own -soul to-day! “For love is strong as death. * * * -Many waters cannot quench love, neither can -the floods drown it!” In imagination she felt the -numbing clasp of the dragging under-deeps; she -saw her soul wandering, wraith-like, through -shadowless, silent spaces and across infinite distances. -Would it bear with it a placid joy?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> -Would it know no quicker heart-beat, no tears -that reddened the eyelid, no tender thrill in all its -lucent veins? Would nothing, nothing of that -strange, sweet wildness that ran imprisoned in all -her blood cling to it still?</p> - -<p>The thought bit her. She reached up and -snatched down the belt, pressing the clasp tightly -with her cheek in the curve of her shoulder, repeating -dumbly to herself the pious “Ora pro -anima sua” that stood before her eyes.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>A far crackling struck across her mood, and -hastily drawing the belt about her waist, she -leaned sideways from the upright beam, raising -her hand quickly, as if to put back the lawless -meshes of her hair. She heard the sound of a -confident step, crunching on the marly sand, and -the swish of bent-back bushes. It was coming -in a direct line toward her. There was a dry -clatter of falling fence-rails, as though the intruder, -disdaining obstacles, preferred to walk -through them.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>She caught a glimpse of a familiar, bright-colored -scarf between the glimmering, leafy -tangles, and then the thrust of a quick spring, -and an instant later the figure that had vaulted -the heavy fence came dropping, feet foremost, -through the snapping screen of brambles, and -walked straight toward the spot where she had -risen to her feet with a little glad cry.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak"> -II.</h2></div> - - -<p>“Give me your hand,” he said peremptorily. -They were on a pebbly spur of the descending -path, and Daunt had leaped down below her. As -she stretched it out to him, he drew it sharply -toward him. She felt herself grasped firmly in -his arms, swung off and lifted to the smooth -level beneath. She could feel his uneven breaths -stirring in the roots of her hair, and his wrists -straining. Her head fell against his shoulder -and her look met his, startled. His sunburned -face was pale, and his gray eyes were hazed with -a daring softness.</p> - -<p>Then, as she lay passive in his arms, a fiery -longing grew swiftly in them, and he suddenly -bent his head and kissed her—again and again. -She felt her unused mouth moulding to answering<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> -kisses beneath his own, and her cheeks rushing -into a flame. Through her closed lids the -sun hung like a rosy mist of woven sparkles.</p> - -<p>“I love you!—<i>you!</i>—<i>you!</i>” he said, stammering -and hoarsely. “I <i>love</i> you!”</p> - -<p>The tumbling passion of the utterance pierced -through her like a spear of desperate gladness. -Every nerve reached and quivered, tendril-like. -His deep breathing, toned with the dripping lap -of the shingle seemed to throb through her. She -lay quiet, breathless, her lashes drooped, her very -skin tense under the lasting burn of his lips.</p> - -<p>“Margaret! Ardee, dear! Look at me!”</p> - -<p>Her eyes flowed into his. From a blur under -cloud-pale eyelids, they had turned to violet balls, -shot through with a trembling light. The look -she gave him melted over him in a rage of love. -Desire bordered it, a smile dipped in it, promise -made it golden, and he saw his own longing -painted in it as a pilgrim sees his reflection in a -slumbering pool.</p> - -<p>She clasped her hands on his head, pushing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> -back his cloth cap, and framing his face in the -long, sweeping oval of her arms. He could feel -little vibrant thrills in her fingers. He held her -tightly, masterfully, first at arm’s length, laughing -into her wide eyes, and then close, folding -her, pressing her hair with his hands.</p> - -<p>The leaves from the roses she wore fell in -splotches of deep red, sprinkling the brown-veined -sand at their feet; the dense, bruised odor, -mixed with the salty breath of seaweed, seemed -to fill and choke all her swaying senses.</p> - -<p>“It is like a storm!” she said. “I have dreamed -of it coming at the last gently, like a bright -morning, but it isn’t like that! It seemed as if -that were the way it would come to me—like a -still, small voice—but it isn’t! It’s the wind and -the earthquake and the fire! Oh!” she said, -drawing her breath in a long, shuddering inhalation. -“Do you smell that rose-scent? Did ever -any roses smell like that? They—they make me -dizzy! Feel me tremble.”</p> - -<p>Every pulsation of her frame ran through him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> -with a swift, delicious sensation, like the touching -of rough velvet. Her curling hair, where it -sprang against his neck, ridged his skin with a -creeping delight.</p> - -<p>“Do you know,” he said, “you are like a great, -tall, yellow lily. Some gnome has drawn amber -streaks in your hair—it shines like a gold-stone—and -rubbed your cheeks with a pink tulip leaf! -And your lips are like—no, they are like nothing -but ripe strawberries! Nobody could ever -describe your eyes; they are most like a bed of -purple violets set in a brown cloud with the sun -shining through it. Tell me!” he said suddenly. -“Do you love me? Do you? Do you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes! yes! yes! Oh,” she breathed, “what -is there in your hands? I want them to touch -me!”</p> - -<p>He passed his palms lightly along the bow-like -curve of her cheek.</p> - -<p>“It is like fire and flowers and music,” she -said, “all rolled into one. And those roses! They -are attar. The sand looks as if it were bleeding!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>“Shall you think of me when I am on the train -to-night?”</p> - -<p>“All the time—every minute!”</p> - -<p>“And to-morrow, while I am in the city?”</p> - -<p>“Yes!”</p> - -<p>“And Monday?”</p> - -<p>“Then you will come back to me!”</p> - -<p>He strained her to him in the white sunlight, -and kissed her again, on the lips and forehead -and hands, and she clung to him, lifting her face -to him eagerly and passionately.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Margaret stood watching the firm-knit figure -as it crossed the sand space. She saw the lift of -his lithe shoulders as he pulled himself up the -bank, saw his form splashed against the sky, saw -the flutter of his handkerchief as he flung her a -last signal.</p> - -<p>She waved her hand in return, and he disappeared.</p> - -<p>Then she ran to a slant spile rising lonely from -the sand, and sank down quivering. It seemed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> -her as if she could bear no more joy; her body -ached with it. She threw up her hands and -laughed aloud in sheer ecstasy.</p> - -<p>Then she remembered that she had left her -book in the grove, and she stumbled up and -walked back slowly, smiling and humming an air -as she went along.</p> - -<p>The first shade of the dimming afternoon lay -under the trees as she climbed again to the little -clearing, and the sunbeams glanced obliquely -from the crooked oak branches. The air was -very still and freighted only with the soft swish -of the ebb-tide and the clean fragrance of balsam. -Her book lay open and face down on the plank -seat. She picked it up and sat down, leaning -back.</p> - -<p>She was still humming, low-voiced, and as she -sat she began to sing—not strongly, but hushed, -as though for a drowsy ear—with her face lifted -and her dreamy eyes upon the sea margin.</p> - - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - -<div class="first">“Purple flower and soaring lark,</div> -<div class="indent">Throbbing song and story bold,</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> -<div class="verse">All must pass into the dark,</div> -<div class="indent">Die and mingle with the mold.</div> -<div class="indent2">Ah, but still your face I see!</div> -<div class="indent2">Bend and clasp me; Sweet, kiss me!”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>It was Daunt’s song, the one he most loved to -hear her sing. But to-day it had a new, rich -meaning. She stretched her hands on either side, -grasping the seat, and sang on to the bending -boughs, rubbing slowly against the weather-stained -beam arms above her head:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - -<div class="first">“Dear, to-day shall never rust!</div> -<div class="indent">What, are we to be o’erwise?</div> -<div class="verse">All that doth not smell of dust</div> -<div class="indent">Lieth in your lips and eyes.</div> -<div class="indent2">So, while loving yet may be,</div> -<div class="indent2">Bend and fold me; Sweet, kiss me!”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>The shade grew darker as she sat. It deepened -the brown of her eyes and the sea-bloom in -her cheeks, and the loitering lilac of the west -touched the coils of her hair, as they lay against -the gray board, blotting with their living bronze -the half-effaced, forgotten inscription:</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="large"><i>Pray for Her Soul.</i></span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">III.</h2></div> - - -<p>In the pause before the service began, Margaret’s -eyes drifted aimlessly about the dim body -of the small but pretentious seaside chapel. It -held the same incongruous gathering so often to -be seen at coast resorts, a mingling of ultra-fashionable -summer visitors, and homely and uncomfortably -well-dressed village folk. There was -Mrs. Atherton, whose bounty had elevated the -parish from a threadbare existence, with simple -service and plain altar furniture, to a devout adherence -to High Church methods, with candles -and rich vestments, and a never-failing welcome -for stylish visiting clergymen from the city; -there was the wife of the proprietor of the Beach -Hotel, whose costumes were always faithful second -editions of Mrs. Atherton’s; there were the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> -rector’s two daughters and the usual sprinkling -of familiar faces that she had passed on the drive -or the beach walk.</p> - -<p>The lawn outside was shimmering with the -heat that had followed an over-night shower, -and the pewed calm oppressed her. Her limbs -were nettled with teasing pricks of restlessness.</p> - -<p>The open windows let in a heavy, drenched -rose-odor, tinged with a distant salt smell of sea. -The air was weighted with it—it was the same -mingled odor that had filled her nostrils when -she stood with Daunt on the shore, with the wet -wind in their faces and fluttering petals of the -crushed roses she had worn staining the dun -sand and crisp, strown seaweed like great drops -of blood. It overpowered her senses. She -breathed it deeply, feeling a delicious intoxication, -and its suggested memory ran through her -veins like an ethereal ichor, tingling to her finger -ends.</p> - -<p>Her eyes, heavy and swimming, were full of -the iridescent colors of the stained-glass window<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> -opposite, with the dull yellow aureole about the -head of the central figure. The hues wove and -blended in a background of subdued harmony, -lending life and seeming movement to the -features.</p> - -<p>“A man somewhat tall and comely, his hair the -color of a ripe chestnut, curling and waving.” -The description recurred to her, not as though -written to the Roman Senate by Lentulus, Governor -of Judea, but as if printed in bossed letters -about the rim of the picture. “In the middle of -his head a seam parteth it, after the manner of -the Nazarites. His forehead is plain and very -delicate, his face without spot or wrinkle, beautified -with a lovely red; his nose and mouth of -charming symmetry. His look is very innocent -and mature; his eyes gray, clear and quick. His -body is straight and well proportioned, his hands -and arms most delectable to behold.”</p> - -<p>“His eyes gray, clear and quick.” From the -window they followed her—the eyes that had -looked into hers on the beach, full of longing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> -light—the eyes that had charmed her and had -seemed to draw up her soul to look back at them.</p> - -<p>She dragged her gaze away with a quick shudder, -to a realization of her surroundings. A -paining recoil seized her at the temerity of her -thought, and her imaginings shrank within themselves. -A vivid shame bathed her soul. She -felt half stifled.</p> - -<p>The dulled and droning intonation of the -reader came to her as something banal and shop-worn. -He was large and heavy-voiced. His hair -was sandy and thin, and his skin was of that peculiar -pallor and pursiness bred of lack of exercise -and a full diet. It reminded her irresistibly -of pink plush. He had a double chin, and -he intoned with eyes cast down, and his large -hands clasped before him, after the fashion -affected by the higher church. His monotonous -and nasal utterance glossed the periods with -unctuous and educated mispronunciation. The -congregation was punctuated with nodding -heads.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>To Margaret, listening dully, there seemed to -be an inexpressible incongruity between the man -and the office, between the face and the robes, -which should have lent a spirituality. She -looked about her furtively. Surely, surely she -must see that thought reflected from other faces; -but her range of vision took in only countenances -overflowing with conscious Sabbath rectitude, -heads nodding with rhythmic sleepiness -and eyes shining with churchly complacency. -Suddenly through the rolling periods the meaning -struck through to Margaret, and her wandering -mind was instantly arrested.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>“<i>For they that are after the flesh do mind the -things of the flesh; but they that are of the -Spirit, the things of the Spirit. For to be carnally -minded is death, but to be spiritually -minded is life and peace.</i>”</p></blockquote> - -<p>She heard the words with painful eagerness. -Her mind seemed suddenly as acute, as quick to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> -record impressions as though she had just awakened -from a long sleep.</p> - -<p>A woman in a pew to Margaret’s right dropped -her prayer-book with a smart crash onto the -wooden floor. The smooth brows drew together -sharply and his voice, pauseless, took on a note -of asperity, of irritated displeasure. Reading was -a specialty of his, and to be interrupted spoiled -the general effect and displeased him.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>“<i>Because the carnal mind is enmity against -God: for it is not subject to the law of God, -neither indeed can be.</i>”</p> - -<p>“<i>So then they that are in the flesh cannot -please God.</i>”</p></blockquote> - -<p>An old man, bent and deaf, sat close up under -the reader’s desk. He leaned forward with elbow -on knee and one open palm behind a hairy ear. -His eyes were raised, and his look was rapt. -Margaret could see his side-face from where she -sat. He saw only the sanctified figure of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> -priest and heard no human monotone, but the -voice of God, speaking through the lips of His -anointed. He was a real worshipper. For her -the spiritual was swallowed up. That one bodily -image stood before her inner self. It had blotted -out her diviner view; it had even thrust itself behind -the flowing robes and sandaled feet and had -dared to usurp the place of the eternal symbol of -human spirituality!</p> - -<p>She locked her hands about her prayer-book, -pinching them between her knees. The woman -directly in front of her wore a hot, figured silk -and a drab mull boa that looked dreadfully like -bunched caterpillars. The riotous rose-odor -made her faint and sick, and she had a horrible -feeling that the carved heads of the jutting stone -work were laughing evilly at her.</p> - -<p>A strangling terror of herself seized her—a -terror of this new and hideous darkness that had -descended upon her spirit—a terror of this overmastering -impulse which threatened her soul. It -was part of the dominance of the flesh that its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> -senses should be opened only to itself, only to the -earthy and the lower. This penalty was already -upon her; of all in that congregation, she, only -she, must see the bestial lurking everywhere, -even in God’s house, and in the vestments of His -minister.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>“<i>So then they that are in the flesh cannot -please God.</i>”</p></blockquote> - -<p>It was part of their punishment that they could -no longer please themselves. Out from every -shape of nature and art, from the shadows of -grove and the sunshine of open plain, from the -crowded street and from the silent church must -start forever this spectre, this unsightly comrade -of fleshly imagination. This was what it -meant to be carnally minded. Margaret’s soul -was weak and dizzy with pain.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>For in some such way will every woman cry. -The very purity of her soul will rise to bar out -the love that is of earth, earthy—the beautiful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> -human love so young, so tender-eyed and warm-fingered, -and with the lovely earth-light that is -about its brows. And then, when the soul grows -weary of the pallid thoughts, when the chill of -the shadows strikes through—when the walls -grow cold and the soul lifts iron bar and chain to -let in the human sunshine, then the pale images -that throng the house gather and are frightened -at the very joy of the sun, and they try to shut -the door again against the shining, and sit sorrowful -in a trembling dark.</p> - -<p>The cry of the woman is, “Give me soul! Give -me spirituality!” Oh, loved hand! Oh, eyes! -Oh, kissed lips and fondled hair! The woman’s -love gives to each of you a soul. You will shine -for her in her nethermost heaven.</p> - -<p>“Tell me not of my love,” she cries, “that it is -corporeal and must fade! Tell me only that it is -of the spirit, a fond and heavenly light, such as -never was in earthly sunrise or in evening star! -A soul, but not a body! An essence, but no substance! -It is too lovely to be of earth, too sweet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> -to be only of this failing human frame. Its -speech is the speech of angels, and its eyes are -like the cherubim. Tell me not that it is not all -of the soul!” So, until she dreams the last dream -of love in earth-gardens, until she closes her -soul’s eyes to dream of the humanity of love, the -dignity of human passion, until then she perfumes -the lily and paints the rose.</p> - -<p>When the temperament that loves much and is -oversensitive opens the gates of its sense to -human passion, if its spiritual side recoils, it recoils -with self-renunciation and with tears. The -pain of such renunciation makes woman’s soul -weak. Its self-probings and the whips of its conscience, -made a very inquisitor, form for her a -present horror. She cries out for the old dream, -the old ideal, the old faith! It is the tears she -sheds for this which drop upon the wall of the -world’s convention and temper it to steel.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>“<i>Therefore, brethren, we are debtors not to the -flesh to live after the flesh. For, if ye live after</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> -<i>the flesh, ye shall die: but if ye through the -Spirit do mortify the deeds of the body, ye shall -live.</i>”</p></blockquote> - -<p>The droning voice of the reader hummed in -Margaret’s ears. She came to herself again, almost -with a start, dimly conscious that the -woman in crêpe in the next pew was watching -her narrowly. She must sit out the service. She -fell to studying the pattern of the embroidery on -the altar cloths. It was in curiously woven -arabesques, grouped about the monogram of -Christ. Anything to withdraw her eyes from the -face of the reader, for which she was beginning -to feel a growing and unreasoning repulsion.</p> - -<p>Throughout the remainder of the sermon she -kept her gaze upon her open Bible, turning up -mechanically all the cross references to the word -“flesh.” She followed the contradistinction of -flesh and spirit through the New Testament. It -was the <i>flesh</i> lusting against the <i>spirit</i>, and the -<i>spirit</i> against the <i>flesh</i>, contrary the one to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> -other. The lust of the flesh and the lust of the -eyes and the pride of life—these all of the -world.</p> - -<p>The voice of the priest ran along in pauseless -flow. It seemed to Margaret that he was repeating, -with infinite variations, the same words -over and over: “So they that are in the flesh cannot -please God.”</p> - -<p>As she rose for the final benediction, her knees -felt weak and she trembled violently. She remembered -what happened afterward only confusedly. -The next thing she really knew was the -sense of a moist apostolic palm pressed against -her forehead as she half sat on the stone bench to -the right of the entrance, and a smooth, rounded -voice saying:</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Atherton! Mrs. Starr! will you come -back here a moment? This dear young woman -appears to be overcome with the heat!”</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">IV.</h2></div> - - -<h3>Daunt to Margaret.</h3> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">New York</span>, Sunday Morning.</p> - -<p>“My Very Own!—Is that the way to begin a -love letter? Anyhow, it is what I want to say. -It is what I have called you a thousand times, to -myself, since a one day far back—which I shall -tell you about some time—when I made up my -mind that you should love me. Does that sound -conceited? Did you ever guess it? Over a year -I have carried the thought with me; you have -loved me only half that time.</p> - -<p>“How I have watched your love unfolding! -How I have hugged and treasured every new little -leaf! I have been afraid so long to touch it; -I wanted every petal full-blown, before I picked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> -it, to be mine—mine, only mine, all mine, as long -as I lived.</p> - -<p>“Since I left you yesterday, to come up to this -dismal city, I have been so happy that I have -almost pinched myself to see if I were not asleep. -To think that all my richest dreams have come -true all at once!</p> - -<p>“When I think of it, it makes me feel very -humble. I shall be more ambitious. I am going -to write better and truer. I must make you -proud of me! I am going to work hard. No -other man ever had such an incentive to grow—to -catch up with ideals—as I have, because no -other man ever had you to love.</p> - -<p>“Yesterday I went directly from the train to -the club. I pulled one of the big chairs into a -shaded corner and closed my eyes to feel over -and over again the deliciousness of the afternoon. -I could feel your body in my arms and your head -hard against my shoulder and—that first kiss. It -has been on my lips ever since! I haven’t dared -even to smoke for fear it might vanish!</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>“All the while I had a curious, vivid, tumultuous -sense as though I were in especially close -touch with you. It seemed almost as if you -wanted to tell me something, and that <i>I couldn’t -quite hear</i>.</p> - -<p>“After I went to bed I could not sleep for happiness; -I wondered what you had been doing, -saying, thinking, dreaming—whether you thought -of me much, and, most of all, when you knelt -down that night! Shall I always be in the ‘Inner -Room,’ and shall you look in often?</p> - -<p>“A letter is such a pitiful makeshift! I could -go on writing pages! I want to put my arms -around you and whisper it in your ear!</p> - -<p>“The church-bells are ringing now. I can picture -you sitting in the chapel, just as you do -every Sunday, and, maybe sometimes, just a -minute of course, stealing a little backward -thought of me!</p> - -<p>“Always in my mind, you will be linked with -red roses, such as you wore <i>then</i>. To-day I am -sending you down a hamper of them. I should<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> -like to think of you to-night as sleeping nestled -up in them, and dreaming their perfume. I am -longing to see you. I feel as though I wanted to -roll the day up and push it away to get into to-morrow -quicker.</p> - -<p>“You will hardly be able to read this—my pen -runs away with me; but I know you can read -what is written over it all and between every two -lines—that I love you, I love you wholly, unalterably.</p> - -<p>“God keep you, safe and sound, dearest, always, -always—for me!</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Richard.</span>”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span></p> - - -<h3>Margaret to Daunt.</h3> - -<p class="right">“Monday.</p> - -<p>“I am leaving this morning for a long visit. I -cannot see you again. I have made up my mind -suddenly—since I saw you Saturday afternoon, -I mean. You will think this incomprehensible, I -know, but, believe me, I <i>must</i> go.</p> - -<p>“Think of me as generously as you can. This -will hurt you, and to hurt you is the hardest part -of it. Do not think that I have treated our association -lightly. I could go upon my knees to beg -you not to believe that I have been deliberately -heartless. Remember me, not as the one who -writes you this now, but as the girl who walked -with you on the beach and who, for that one -hour, thought she saw heaven opened.</p> - - - - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Margaret Langdon.</span>”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p> - - -<h3>Daunt to Margaret.</h3> - -<p>“Dear:—You must let me write you. You -<i>must</i> listen! What does your letter mean? -What is the reason? If there had been anything -that could come between us, I know you well -enough to believe you would have told me before. -How can you expect me to accept such a dismissal? -I don’t understand it. What is it that -has changed you? What takes you from me? -Surely I have a right to know. Tell me! You -can’t intend to stay away. It’s monstrous! It’s -unthinkable! Explain this mystery!</p> - -<p>“I could not believe, when I received your letter -to-day in the city, that you had written it. It -seemed an evil dream that I must wake up from. -Yet I have come back here to our summer haunt -to find it true and you gone. You have even left -me no address, and I must direct this letter to -your city number, hoping it will be forwarded -you.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>“How can you ask me to submit to a final sentence -like this? I feel numbed and stung by the -suddenness of it! I can’t find myself. I can do -nothing but wrestle with the unguessable why of -your going. It’s beyond me.</p> - -<p>“After that one afternoon on the sands, after -that delicious day of realization that my hopes -were true—that you loved me—to be flung aside -in a moment like an old glove, like a burnt-out -match, with no word of explanation, of reason—nothing! -It shan’t stay so! You can’t mean it! -You are a woman, a true, sweet woman; you -<i>shan’t</i> make me believe you a soulless flirt! -There is something else—something I must -know!</p> - -<p>“I feel so helpless, writing to you. Space is a -monster. If I could only see you for a single -moment, I know it would be all right. Write to -me. Tell me what I want to know. Until I hear -something from you, I shall be utterly, endlessly -miserable.</p> - -<p class="right">“R. D.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span></p> - - -<h3>Margaret to Daunt.</h3> - -<p>“I cannot come back, Richard. I cannot even -explain to you why. Don’t humiliate me by writing -me for reasons. You would not understand -me. What good would it do to explain, when I -can hardly explain it to myself? I only <i>feel</i>, and -I am wretched.</p> - -<p>“You must forget that afternoon! I am trying -to do the right thing—the thing that seems right -to myself. I must believe in my instinct; that is -all a woman has. I know this letter doesn’t tell -you anything—I can’t—there is no use—I <i>can’t</i>!</p> - -<p>“You know one thing. You must know that -that last day, when I kissed you, I did not think -of this. I did not intend to go away then. That -was all afterward. I had no idea of hurting or -wronging you—not the slightest!</p> - -<p>“I know this is incoherent. I read over what -I have written and the lines get all jumbled up. -Somehow it seems to mean nothing. And yet it -means so much—oh, so horribly much!—to me.</p> - -<p class="right">“M.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p> - - -<h3>Daunt to Margaret.</h3> - -<p>“Dearest:—Please, please let me reason with -you. Don’t think me ungenerous; bear with me -a little. I <i>must</i> make you see it my way! I cheat -myself with such endless guessing. Can I have -grieved you or disappointed you? Have I -shocked those beautiful white ideals of yours in -any way? If that walk on the shore had been a -month ago, if we had been together since, I -might believe this; but we have not. That was -the last, <i>and you loved me then</i>! I brought my -naked heart to you that afternoon—it had been -yours for long!—and laid it in your hand. You -took it and kissed me, and I went away without -it. Have you weighed it in the balance and -found it wanting? Do you doubt what it could -give you? Dear, let it try!</p> - -<p>“To-day I walked up the old glen where the -deserted cabin is. The very breeze went whispering -of you and the rustling of every bush<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> -sounded like your name. The sky was duller and -the grass less green. Even the squirrels sat up -to ask where you were with the chestnuts you always -brought them. Nothing is the same; I am -infinitely lonely here, and yet I stay on where -everything means you! When I walk it seems as -if you must be waiting, smiling, just around -every bend of the rock—just behind every clump -of ferns—to tell me it was all a foolish fancy, that -you love me and have not gone away! You are -all things to me, dear. I cannot live without you. -I want you—I need you so! I never knew how -much before.</p> - -<p>“Only tell me what your letters have not, that -you do not love me—that you were mistaken—that -it was all a folly, a madness—and I will -never ask again! Ah, but I know you will not; -you cannot. You do! <i>You do!</i> I have that -one moment to remember when I held you in -my arms, when your throat throbbed against -my cheek, when your lips were on mine, when -your arms went up around my head, and when I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> -could feel your heart beating quick against me. -Your breath was trembling and your eyes were -like stars! Can you ask me to forget that, the -moment that I seemed to have always lived and -kept myself for?</p> - -<p>“It’s impossible! This must be a passing mood -of yours which will vanish. Love is a stronger -thing than that! I don’t know the thing that -is troubling you—I can’t guess it—but I am -sure of <i>you</i>. I know you in a larger, deeper way, -and in the end you will never disappoint me in -that!</p> - -<p>“I am hoping, longing, waiting. Let me come -to you! Let me see you face to face, and read -there what the matter is!</p> - -<p>“Remember that I am still</p> - -<p class="right"><span class="indentright">“Your own,</span><br /> -“R.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span></p> - - -<h3>Margaret to Daunt.</h3> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">‘The Beeches,’ Warne.</span></p> - -<p>“I have been touched by your last letter. I -had not intended to write again, yet somehow it -seems as if I must. Can you read between these -lines that I am unhappy? I have been to blame, -Richard, so much to blame; but I didn’t know it -till afterward.</p> - -<p>“I can’t answer your question; it isn’t whether -I love you—it’s <i>how</i>. Doesn’t that tell you anything? -I mustn’t be mistaken in the <i>way</i>. You -must not try to see me; it would only make me -more wretched than I am now, and that is a -great deal more than I could ever tell you.</p> - -<p class="right">“M.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></p> - - -<h3>Daunt to Margaret.</h3> - -<p>“If you won’t have any pity for yourself, for -heaven’s sake have some for me! What am <i>I</i> -to do? <i>I</i> haven’t any philosophy to bear on the -situation. I can’t understand your objections. -Your way of reasoning your emotions is simply -ghastly. The Lord never intended them to be -reasoned with! We can’t think ourselves into -love or out of it either. At least <i>I</i> can’t. I’ve -gone too far to go backward. Since you went I -have been one long misery—one long, aching -homesickness.</p> - -<p>“You ask me not to ‘humiliate’ you by -asking for your reasons. Don’t you think <i>I</i> am -humiliated? Don’t you think <i>I</i> suffer, too? And -yet it isn’t that; my love isn’t so mean a thing -that it is my vanity that is hurt most. If I believed -you didn’t love me, that might be; but if -you could leave me as you have—without a -chance to speak, with nothing but a line or two -that only maddened me—you wouldn’t hesitate to -tell me the truth now.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>“You <i>do</i> love me, Margaret! You’re torturing -yourself and torturing me with some absurd hallucination. -Forgive me, dear—I don’t mean that—only -it’s all so puzzling and it hurts me so! -I’m all raw and bleeding. My nerves are all -jangles.</p> - -<p>“I can only see one thing clearly—that you -are wrong, and you’ll see it. Only somehow I -can’t make you see it yet!</p> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">Daunt.</span>”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">V.</h2></div> - - -<p>The warm October weather lay over the Drennen -homestead at Warne. This was a house -gigantic and austere, its gray stone walls throwing -into relief its red brick porch, veined with -ivy stems, like an Indian’s face, whose warrior -blood is raging, leant against a rock boulder.</p> - -<p>Under the shade of the falling vine-fringe -Margaret sat, passive and quiet, on the veranda. -From under drooping lids, long-lashed, her -brown eyes looked out with a sort of sweet and -sober studiousness. Her reddish-brown hair appeared -the color of old metal beaten by the hammer -here and there into a lighter flick of gold, -rolling back from her straight forehead and -caught in a loose, low knot. The corners of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> -mouth were lifted a little, giving an extra fulness -to sensitive lips, and the long rise of her -cheek, from chin to temple, was without a dimple.</p> - -<p>The haze hung an opal tint over the blue hillsides -and lent to nearer objects a dreamy unreality. -The atmosphere reflected Margaret’s -mood. She was conscious of a certain tired -numbness. Her acts of the past few weeks had -a sort of elusiveness in perspective, and the old -house at Warne, with its gloomy stables, taciturn -servants, its familiar occupants—even she herself—seemed -to possess a curious unreality.</p> - -<p>Across the field ran the wavering fringe of -willow which marked the little sluggish brook -with the foot-log, where often she had waded, -slim-legged, as a child. There was the old stable -loft from which she had once fallen, hunting for -pigeons’ eggs. There were the same gloomy -holes under the eaves, from which awful bat -shapes had issued for her childish shuddering. -Only the master of the house was changed, and -he was Melwin Drennen, Lydia’s husband. As a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> -child, he had carried her on his shoulders over the -fields when she had visited the place. She had -liked him unaffectedly, and the great sorrow of -his life had hurt her also.</p> - -<p>She was a mere child then, and had heard it -with a vague and wondering pain. It had been a -much-talked-of match—that between her cousin -and this man—and it was only a week after the -wedding, at this same old place, that the accident -had happened. Lydia had been thrown from her -horse. She was carried back to a house of -mourning. The decorations were taken from the -walls, and great surgeons came down from the -city to ponder, shake their heads, and depart. -He, loving much, had hoped against hope. Margaret -remembered hearing how he had sat all one -night outside her door, silent, with his head -against the wainscoting and his hands tight together—the -night they said she would die.</p> - -<p>And that was twelve years ago! She had bettered -slightly, grown stronger, walked a little, -then declined again. Now for five years past her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> -life had been a colorless exchange of bed and reclining-chair, -and, in this period, she had never -left the house.</p> - -<p>Margaret shivered in the sun as she thought. -At intervals she had heard of his life. “Such a -<i>lovely</i> life!” people said. She had thought of his -self-sacrifice and devotion as something very -beautiful. It had been an ever-present ideal to -her of spiritual love. In her own self-dissatisfaction -she had flown to this haven instinctively, as -to a dear example. A strange desire to stab herself -with the visual presence of her own lack had -possessed her. But in some way the steel had -failed her. She was conscious now of a vague -self-reproach that her greater sorrow was for -Melwin and not for the invalid. Surely Lydia -was the one to be sorry for, and yet there was an -awfulness about the life he led that she was -coming to feel acutely.</p> - -<p>The crying incompletion, the negative hollowness -of it, had smote her. His full life had -stopped, like a sluggish stream. His vitality, his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> -energies, could not go ahead. He was bound -through all these years to the body of this death. -Love had broadened his gaze, lifted his horizon, -and then Fate had suddenly reared this crystal, -impassable wall, through which he must ever -gaze and ever be denied. He was condemned -still to love her and to watch agonizedly the slender -gradations, the imperceptible stages by -which she became less and less of her old self to -him.</p> - -<p>Margaret gazed out across the velvet edge of -the hills, and felt a sense of dissatisfaction in the -color harmony. A doubt had darkened the windows -of her soul and turned the golden sunlight -to a duller chrome. She was so absorbed that -she caught a sharp breath as the French window -behind her clicked raspingly and swung inward -on its hinges. It was Melwin.</p> - -<p>He came slowly forward through the window, -holding his head slightly on one side as though -he listened for something behind him. She -found herself wondering how he had acquired<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> -the habit. His face was motionless and set, with -a peculiar absence of placidity—like a graven -image with topaz eyes. To Margaret it suggested -a figure on an Egyptian bas-relief, and -yet he looked much the same, she thought, as he -had ten years before. Perhaps his beard was -grayer and he was more stoop-shouldered, and—yes, -his temples looked somehow hollower and -older. He had a way of pausing just before the -closing word of a question, giving it a quaint -and unnatural emphasis, and of gazing above and -past one when he spoke or answered. When he -had first greeted her on her arrival, Margaret had -turned instinctively in the belief that he had -spoken to some one unperceived behind her.</p> - -<p>“Will you go in to—Lydia?” he said, difficultly. -“I think she wants you.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>As Margaret came down the stairway a moment -later, tying the ribbons of her broad hat -under her chin, his look of inquiry met her at the -door, and the tinge of eagerness in his lack-lustre<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> -eyes faded back into stolidity again as she -told him it was only an errand for Lydia.</p> - -<p>She jumped from the piazza and raced around -the drive toward the stables. Creed, the coachman, -whose wool was growing gray in a lifetime -of allegiance to the Whiting stock, was standing -by the window, holding a harvest apple for the -black, reaching lip and white, impatient teeth of -his favorite charge inside the stall. He dropped -his currycomb as he saw her.</p> - -<p>“Mornin’, Miss Marg’et. Want me fur -sump’n?”</p> - -<p>“No, I only came for Mrs. Drennen to see how -Sempire’s foot is. She says he stepped on a -stone.”</p> - -<p>The black face puckered with a puzzled look, -that broadened into a smile the next instant.</p> - -<p>“Marse Drennen done tole dat to Miss Liddy ez -a skuse fo’ he not ridin’ mo’. She all de time -tryin’ to mek he git out an’ gallavant. He ain’t -nuver gwine do dat no mo’. Miss Liddy, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> -al’ays worryin’ feared Marse Drennen moutn’t -joy heseff, an’ he al’ays worryin’ cause she worryin’. -She mek up all kinds ob things fur he to do -dat way, an’ he jes humor her to think he do ’em, -an’ she nuver know no diffunce.”</p> - -<p>Margaret had seated herself on the step and -was looking up. “You’ve always been with her, -haven’t you?”</p> - -<p>Creed smiled to the limit of his heavy lips. -“’Deed I hev. When Miss Liddy wuz married -she purty nigh fou’t to fotch me wid her. Her -ole maid sister, she wantter keep me wid dee all -back dar in New O’leens. You see I knowed -Miss Liddy when she warn’t a hour ole an’ no -bigger’n a teapot.</p> - -<p>“Meh mammy wuz nussin’ de li’l mite in her -lap wid a hank’cher ober her, an’ I tip in right -sorf to cyar a hick’ry lorg an’ drap on de fiah. -Dat li’l han’ upped an’ pull de hank’cher offen her -face an’ look at me till I git cl’ar th’oo de do’. -She wuz de peartest, forward’st young ’un! An’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> -she growed up lak she started, too. Marse Drennen -he proud lak a peacock when he come down -dyar frum de Norf an’ cyared her off wid he.”</p> - -<p>“I remember how pretty she was.” Margaret -spoke softly.</p> - -<p>“Does yo’ sho ’nuff? She wuz jes ’bout yo’ -age den. Her ha’r wuz de color ob a gole dollar, -an’ her eyes wuz blue ez a catbird’s aig. She -wuz strong as a saplin’, an’ she walk high lak a -hoss whut done tuck de blue ribbon et de fa’r.”</p> - -<p>Sempire arched his shining neck and whinnied -gently for another apple. Creed stroked the intelligent -face affectionately. “Whut mek yo’ go -juckin’ dat way?” he said. “Cyarn’t you see I’se -talkin’ to de ledy?”</p> - -<p>He looked into the fresh young face beneath -the straw hat with its nodding poppies and drew -a deep breath.</p> - -<p>“It do hurt me, honey, to see de change! Don’t -keer how hard I wucks, I feels lonesome to see -how de laugh an’ song done died in her froat.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> -’Twuz jes one stumble dat done it. She an’ -Marse Drennen wuz gallopin’ on befo’ de yuthers. -Pres’n’y she look back to see ef I wuz comin’. De -win’ wuz blowin’ her purty ha’r ’bout ev’y way, -an’ her eyes wuz sparklin’ jes lak de sun on de ice -in de waggin ruts. Jes dat minit de hoss slip, -an’ I holler an’ he done drap in er heap on he -knees, an’ Miss Liddy she fall er li’l way off an’ -lay still.</p> - -<p>“Seem lak meh heart jump up in meh mouf. -I wuz de fust one dyar. She wuz layin’ wid her -ha’r ober her face an’ her po’ li’l back all bent up -agin de groun’!</p> - -<p>“Marse Drennen he go on turrible. He kneel -down dyar in de road an’ kiss her awful, an’ beg -her to open her eyes, an’ say he gwine kill dat -hoss sho’. Den we cyared her back to de house, -an’ she nuver know nuttin’ fo’ days an’ days. De -gre’t doctors do nuttin’ fer her. She jes lay an’ -lay, an’ et seem lak she couldn’t move, only her -haid. Marse Drennen he nuver leabe her. He jes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> -set in de cheer an’ rock heseff back an’ forf lak -a baby an’ look at her an’ moan same’s he feelin’ -et too.</p> - -<p>“He don’ nuver git ober et no mo’. Peers lak -she’d git erlong better now ef he didn’t grieve so. -He hole he haid up al’ays when he roun’ her. He -wuz bleeged to do dat, to keep her from seein’ -he disapp’inted, ’cause she wuz al’ays sickly an’ -in baid to nuver rekiver. He face sorter light up -wid her lookin’ on, an’ he try to cheer her up, -meckin’ out dat tain’ meek no diffunce. Hit did, -do’! He git out o’ her sight, he look so moanful; -he ain’t jolly an’ laughin’ lak when he wuz down -Souf co’tin’, an’ I hole he hoss till way late.</p> - -<p>“She al’ays thinkin’ ob him now, an’ he don’ -keer fer nuttin’—jes sit wid he chin in bofe han’s -on de po’ch lookin’ down. He heart done got -numbed. Seems lak de blood done dried up in -he veins an’ some time he gwine to shribble up -lak er daid tree whut nuver gwine show no red -an’ yaller leabes no mo’. He jes live al’ays lak -he done los’ sump’n he couldn’ fin’ nowhar.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span>Margaret arose from the step as he paused -and turned his dusky face away to pick up the -fallen currycomb.</p> - -<p>As she walked back to the house Melwin’s figure -as she had seen him on the porch rose before -her memory—the face of a sleeper, with the look -of another man in another life. Before her misty -eyes it hung like a suspended mask against the -background of the drab stone walls.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">VI.</h2></div> - - -<p>The frost scouts of the marshalling winter had -fallen upon the woods which skirted the Drennen -estate, and the great beeches were crimsoning in -their death flush; the maples enchanting with -their fickle foliage, some still clinging to their -green, and others brilliant with blushes that they -must soon stand naked before the cold stare of -the sky. Here and there on some aspiring knoll -a slim poplar rose like a splendid bouquet of -starting yellow.</p> - -<p>At a turn of the road, which wound leisurely -between seamed tree-boles, Margaret had seated -herself upon a lichened slab of stone. Her -loosely braided hair lay against the hood of her -scarlet cloak, slipping from her shoulders, and -she seemed, in her vivid beauty, the incarnate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> -spirit of the blazonry of fall. Her head was bare -and her clasped hands, dropped between her -knees, held a slender book, a random selection -from the litter of the library table. It was the -story of Marpessa, and unconsciously she had -folded down the leaf at the lines she had just -read:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - -<div class="indent3">“I love thee then</div> -<div class="verse">Not only for thy body packed with sweet</div> -<div class="verse">Of all this world, that cup of brimming June,</div> -<div class="verse">That jar of violet wine set in the air,</div> -<div class="verse">That palest rose, sweet in the night of life;</div> -<div class="verse">Nor for that stirring bosom all besieged</div> -<div class="verse">By drowsing lovers, or thy perilous hair;</div> - -<div class="verse">* * * * * *</div> - -<div class="verse">Not for this only do I love thee, but</div> -<div class="verse">Because Infinity upon thee broods,</div> -<div class="verse">And thou art full of whispers and of shadows.</div> -<div class="verse">Thou meanest what the sea has striven to say</div> -<div class="verse">So long, and yearnèd up the cliffs to tell;</div> -<div class="verse">Thou art what all the winds have uttered not,</div> -<div class="verse">What the still night suggesteth to the heart.</div> -<div class="verse">Thy voice is like to music heard ere birth,</div> -<div class="verse">Some spirit lute touched on a spirit sea;</div> -<div class="verse">Thy face remembered is from other worlds;</div> -<div class="verse">It has been died for, though I know not when,</div> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> - -<div class="verse">It has been sung of, though I know not where.</div> -<div class="verse">It has the strangeness of the luring West,</div> -<div class="verse">And of sad sea-horizons; beside thee</div> -<div class="verse">I am aware of other times and lands,</div> -<div class="verse">Of birth far back, of lives in many stars.”</div> -</div></div> - -<p>With the broadening half-smile upon her -parted lips and that far splendor in her eyes, she -looked as might have looked the earthly maiden -for whom the fair god and the passionate human -Idas pledged their loves before great Zeus.</p> - -<p>The deadened trampling of horse’s hoofs upon -the soft, shaly road beat in upon her reverie. The -horse, moving briskly, was abreast of her as she -started to her feet. There was a sharp, surprised -exclamation from the rider, a snort of fear from -the animal as he shied and plunged sideways -from the flaring apparition. Almost before she -could cry out—so quickly that she could never -afterward recall how it happened—the thing was -done. The frantic brute reared white-eyed, rose -and pawed, wheeling, and the rider, with one -foot caught and dragging from the stirrup-iron,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> -was down upon the ground. Margaret, without -reflection, acted instantly. With a single bending -spring of her lithe body she was beside the -creature’s head, her slender arms, like stripped -willow branches, straining and tugging at his -bit, until the steel clamps cut into her flesh. She -threw all the power of her arm upon the heavy -jaw, and with one hand reached and clasped -tight just above the great steaming, flame-notched -nostrils. The fierce head shook from -side to side an instant, then the lifting hoofs became -calm, and he stood still, trembling. Slipping -her hand to the bridle, she turned her head -for the first time and was face to face with -Daunt.</p> - -<p>She gazed at him speechless, with widening -eyes. A leaping joy at the sight of him mixed -itself with a realization of his past peril. She -felt her face whiten under his steadfast gaze. A -thousand times she had imagined how they -might meet, what she might say, how she would -act, and now, without a breath of warning, Fate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> -had set him there beside her. His hand lay next -hers upon the rein of the animal, which a single -faltering of her finger, a drooping of her eyelash -would have left to drag him helpless to a terrible -death. A breathless thanksgiving was in her -soul that she had not swerved in foot or hand.</p> - -<p>Suddenly she noticed that his left hand hung -limp, and her whole being flamed into sympathy. -“Oh, your poor wrist! You have hurt it!” Her -fingers drew his arm up to her sight. Her look -caressed his hand.</p> - -<p>“It’s nothing,” he said hastily, but with compressed -lips. “I must have wrenched it when I -tumbled. How awkward of me!”</p> - -<p>“It was I who frightened your horse; and no -wonder, when I jumped up right under his feet.”</p> - -<p>“And in that cloak, too!” he said, his eye -noting the buoyancy of her beauty and its grace -of curve.</p> - -<p>The rebellious waves of her brown hair had -filched rosy lustres from her garb, and the blood -painted her cheeks with a stain like wild moss-berries.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> -Her eyes chained his own. She had not -yet released his hand, but was touching it with -the purring regard of a woman for an injured -pet. The allurement of her physical charm -seemed to him to pass from her finger-tips like -pricklings of electricity from a Leyden jar.</p> - -<p>Daunt shook off her hand with an uncontrollable -gesture, and with his one arm still thrust -through the bridle, drew her close to him and -kissed her—kissed her hair, her forehead, her -half-opened eyes, her mouth, her throat, her neck.</p> - -<p>She felt his lips scorch through her cloak. He -dropped upon his knees, still holding her, and -showered kisses upon the rough folds of her -gown.</p> - -<p>“Margaret!” he cried, “you know why I have -come! You know what I want! I want you! -Forgive me, but I couldn’t stay away. Do you -suppose I thought you meant what you said in -those letters? Why should you run away from -me? Why did you leave me as you did? What -is the matter?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>As he looked up at her, he saw that the light -had died out of her eyes. Her lips were trembling. -Her face was marked by lines of weariness. -She repulsed him gently and went back a -few steps, gazing at him sorrowfully.</p> - -<p>“You shouldn’t have come,” she said then. -“You ought to have stayed away! You make it -so hard for me!”</p> - -<p>“Hard?” His voice rose a little. “Don’t you -love me? Have you quit caring for me? Is -that it?”</p> - -<p>“No—not that.”</p> - -<p>“Do you suppose,” he went on, “that I will -give you up, then? You can’t love a man one day -and not love him the next! You’re not that sort! -Do you think I would have written you—do you -think for one minute I would have come here, if -I hadn’t known you loved me? What <i>is</i> this -thing that has come between us? What <i>is</i> it -takes you from me? Doesn’t love mean anything? -Tell me!” he said, as she was silent. -“Don’t stand there that way!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>“How can I?” she cried. “I tried to tell you in -those letters.”</p> - -<p>“Letters!” There was a rasp in Daunt’s voice. -“What did they tell me? Only that there was -some occult reason—Heaven only knows what—why -it was all over; why I was not to see you -again. Do you suppose that’s enough for me? -You don’t know me!”</p> - -<p>“No, but I know myself.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, I know you better than you know -yourself. You said you didn’t want to see me -again! That was a lie! You <i>do</i> want to see me -again! You’re nursing some foolish self-deception. -You’re fighting your own instincts.”</p> - -<p>“I’m fighting myself,” she said; “I’m fighting -what is weak and miserably wrong. I can’t explain -it to you. It isn’t that I don’t know what -you think. I don’t know where I stand with myself.”</p> - -<p>“You loved me!” he burst forth, in a tone almost -of rage. “You <i>loved</i> me! You know you -did! Great God! you don’t want me to think<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> -you didn’t love me that day, do you?” he said, a -curiously hard expression coming into his eyes.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know.” She spoke wearily. “I—don’t—know. -How <i>can</i> I know? Don’t you see, it -isn’t what I thought then—it isn’t what I did. It’s -what was biggest in my thought. Oh—” she -broke off, “you can’t understand! You <i>can’t</i>! -It’s no use. You’re not a woman.”</p> - -<p>“No,” he said roughly, “I’m not a woman. I’m -only a man, and a man feels!”</p> - -<p>“I know you think that of me,” she said -humbly. “But, indeed, indeed, I don’t mean to -be cruel—only to myself.”</p> - -<p>“No, I suppose not!” retorted Daunt bitterly. -“Women never mean things! Why should they? -They leave that to men! Do you suppose,” he -said with quick fierceness, “that there is anything -left in life for me? Is it that I’ve fallen in your -estimation? You thought I was strong, perhaps, -and now you have come to the conclusion that -I’m weak! And the fact that it was <i>you</i> and that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> -<i>you</i> felt too makes no difference. I’ve heard of -women like that, but I never believed there were -any! You wash your feeling entirely out of your -conscience, and I’m the one who must hang for -it. And in spite of it all, you’re human! Do you -think I don’t know that?”</p> - -<p>She put out her hands as if to ward off a tangible -blow. “Don’t,” she said weakly, “please -don’t!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t?” he repeated. “Does it hurt to speak -of it? Do you want to forget it? Do you think -I ever shall? I don’t want to. It’s all I shall -have to remind me that once you had a heart!”</p> - -<p>“No! no!” she cried vehemently. “You <i>must</i> -understand me better than that! Don’t you see -that I want to do what you say? Don’t you see -that my only way is to fight it? It is I who am -weak! Oh, it seems in the past month I have -learned so much! I am too wise!”</p> - -<p>“Wait,” he said; “can you say truly in your -heart that you do not love me?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>“That—isn’t it,” she stammered.</p> - -<p>“It is!” he flamed. “Tell me you don’t love me -and I will go away.”</p> - -<p>She was silent, twisting up her fingers with a -still intensity.</p> - -<p>“Tell me!”</p> - -<p>“But there’s so much in loving. It has so -many parts. We love so many ways. We have -more of us than our bodies. We have souls.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not a disembodied spirit,” he broke in. -“I don’t love you with any sub-conscious essence. -I don’t believe in any isms. I love you with -every fibre of my body—with every beat of my -heart—with every nerve and with every thought -of my brain! I love you as every other man in -all the world loves every other woman in the -world. I’m human; and I’m wise enough to -know that God made us human with a purpose. -He knows better than all the priests in the world. -How do you <i>want</i> to be loved? I tell you I love -you with all—<i>all</i>—body and mind and soul! -Now do you understand?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>“It’s not that!” she cried. “It’s how I love -you. Oh, no; I don’t mean that!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care how you love me!” he retorted. -“I’ll take care of that! You loved me enough -that once.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, that’s just it! I forgot everything. I -forgot myself and you! I wanted the touch of -your hands—of your face! There was nothing -else in the whole world! Oh!” she gasped, “do -you think I thought of my soul then?”</p> - -<p>“Listen!” he said, coming toward her so that -she could feel his hot breaths. “You’re morbid. -You’re unstrung. You have an idea that one -ought to love in some subtle, supernatural, -heavenly way. That’s absurd. We are made -with flesh-and-blood bodies. We have veins that -run and nerves that feel. You are trying to forget -that you have a heart. We are not intended -to be spirits—not until after we die, at any rate.”</p> - -<p>“But we <i>have</i> spirits.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he answered, “but it’s only through our -hearts, through our mind’s hopes, through our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> -affections, that we know it. All our soul’s nourishment -comes through the senses. That’s what -they were given us for.”</p> - -<p>“But one must rule—one must be master.”</p> - -<p>Daunt leaned toward her and caught both her -hands in his one. “Ardee, dear,” he said more -softly, “don’t push me off like this! Don’t resist -so! I love you—you know I do. This is only -some unheard-of experiment in emotion. Let it -go! There’s nothing in the world worth breaking -both our hearts for this way. There can’t be -any real reason! Come to me, dear! Come -back! Come back! Won’t you?”</p> - -<p>At the softness of his tone her eyes had filled -slowly with tears.</p> - -<p>“I mustn’t! Oh, I mustn’t! The happiness -would turn into a curse. You mustn’t ask me!”</p> - -<p>Daunt struggled between a rising pity for her -suffering and a helpless frenzy of irritation. Between -the two he felt himself choking. There -seemed in her a resistance and an implacable hostility -that he was as powerless to combat as to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> -understand. He began to comprehend the terrible -strength that lies in consistent weakness. -There was something far worse in her silent -mood than there could have been in a storm of reproaches -or of vehement denial. He felt that if -he spoke again he could but raise higher the barrier -between them, which would not be beaten -down by sheer force. He mounted, stumblingly -and blindly, his left hand awkwardly swinging, -and, turning his horse’s head, spurred him into a -vicious trot.</p> - -<p>A bit of golden-rod had dropped from his button-hole -when he had crushed her in his embrace, -and as he disappeared down the curved road, -under the passionate foliage, Margaret slipped -upon her knees and caught the dusty blossom to -her face in agonized abandon. Tears came to -her in a gusty whirl of longing, and strangling -sobs tore at her throat.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">VII.</h2></div> - - -<p>Nightshade and wistaria. The lusty poison-vine -and the delicate climbing tendrils. The evil -and the pure. Their snake-like stems wound -about each other, twining in sinuous intimacy, -the cardinal berries flaunting alone where the -fragrant purple blooms had long since fallen. -They clung to each other, the enmeshed and alien -branches veiling a sightless trunk, whose rotted -limbs, barkless and neglected, projected bare -knobs complainingly from the vagrant tangle. It -drew Margaret’s steps, and she went closer. The -dogs that had followed yelping at her heels, after -she had tired of throwing sticks for them to -fetch, now went nosing off across the orchard in -canine unsympathy with her reflective mood.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> -She stood a monochrome, in roughish brown -tweed, under the dappling shadows.</p> - -<p>“Miss Langdon, I believe?”</p> - -<p>The deep, resonant voice recalled her. She -saw a smooth-shaven face with the rounded outline -that belongs to youth, and is but rarely the -heritage of age, surmounted by the striking incongruity -of perfectly milk-white hair. His lips -were thin and firm, suggesting at one time -strength and firmness, and the glance which met -her from the frank, hazel eyes was one of open -friendliness. His clerical coat was close-buttoned -to his vigorous chin.</p> - -<p>“I am Dr. Craig,” he said, “rector of Trinity -parish. I heard that Mrs. Drennen had a cousin -visiting her, and I came out to ask you to come to -our Sabbath services. We haven’t as ambitious a -choir, perhaps, as you have in your city church,” -he said, smiling, “—though we have one tenor -voice which I think quite remarkable—but we -offer the same message and just as warm a welcome.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>Her loneliness had wanted just such a greeting. -“I shall be glad to come!” she answered. -“I passed the church only yesterday and sat -awhile in the porch to rest. It is so peaceful, set -among the trees!”</p> - -<p>“You seemed entirely out of the world as I -walked up the path,” he said. “I could almost -see you think.”</p> - -<p>“I was looking at this.” She pointed to the -clustering vines.</p> - -<p>“What an audacious climber! Its berries have -the color of rubies. And a wistaria, too!”</p> - -<p>“I was thinking when you came,” she continued -hesitatingly, “what a pity it was that the -two should have ever grown together. The wistaria -has an odor like far-away incense, and its -leaves are tender and delicate-veined, like a -climbing soul. The nightshade is dark green and -its berries are sin-color. They don’t belong together, -and now nobody in the world could ever -pull them apart without killing them both. Isn’t -it a pity?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>“Ah, there is where I think you err! That bold, -aspiring sap is just what the pallid wistaria -needs. Its perfume is less insipid for the mingling -earth-smell of the other. It climbs higher -and reaches further for the other’s strength. -The flora of nature follows the same great law as -humanity. Opposite elements combine to make -the strongest men and women. One of the most -valuable, I think, of the suggestions we get from -the vegetable creation is the thought of its comprehensive -good. Nothing that is useful is bad, -and there is nothing that has not its use. What -we know is, the higher grows and develops by -means of the lower.” His fine face lifted as he -spoke with conscious dignity.</p> - -<p>To Margaret, in the untiring challenge of her -self-questionings, his view brought an unworded -solace. Her mind grasped eagerly at his thought, -puzzled by itself, yet reaching for the visible -spirituality of the man. His face, calm and with -a tinge of almost priestly asceticism, was a tacit -reassurance. A wish to hear him speak, to talk<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> -to him, came to her. He had lived longer than -she, he knew so much more! If she could only -ask him! If she only knew how to begin! If -some instinct could only whisper to his mind’s -ear the benumbing question her whole being battled -with, without her having to put it into -words! Even if she could—even if he could -guess it—he might misunderstand. No girl ever -had such thoughts before! They were only hers—only -hers, to hide, to bury in silence! She -blushed hotly to think that she had ever thought -of voicing it to the air. A guilty horror, lest her -face might betray what she was thinking, bathed -her. She could never, never tell it! There could -be no help from outside. Her mind must struggle -with it alone.</p> - -<p>She started visibly, with a feeling that she had -been overheard, at a crunching step behind them. -Her companion greeted the arrival with the -heartiness of an old acquaintance.</p> - -<p>“Ah, Condy,” he said, “much obliged for that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> -salve of yours. It has quite made a new dog -of Birdo.”</p> - -<p>“Thet so?” inquired the newcomer, with interest. -“Et’s a powerful good salve.” His -straggling yellow beard and much-battered straw -hat shed a mellow lustre on his leathery, sun-tanned -face, where twinkled clear blue eyes.</p> - -<p>“I’ve jest been up by th’ kennels,” he volunteered.</p> - -<p>“I hope you found the family all well?” the -rector inquired, with gravely humorous concern.</p> - -<p>“Toler’ble. Th’ ole mastiff won’t let me git -clost ’nough t’ say more’n howdy do. He’s wuss -’n a new town marshal!” He rasped a sulphur -match against his trouser-leg and lit his short -clay pipe, hanging his head awkwardly to do so, -and disclosing the inquisitive muzzle and beady -eyes of a diminutive setter pup, which he carried -under his butternut coat, supported in his forearm. -Margaret patted the cold nose, and its -owner displayed it pridefully.</p> - -<p>“He ain’t but three weeks old,” he said, “en’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> -I’m a-bringin’ him up on th’ bottle. Ef I fetch -him eround he’ll make a fine setter one o’ these -days, fer he’s got good points. Look at th’ shape -o’ his toes! Et goes agin my grain t’ lose a -puppy. Somehow et seems ez ef they hev ez -much right t’ live ez some other people.” His -mouth relaxed broadly about his pipe-stem, with -a damp smile.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter with him?” asked the rector.</p> - -<p>“Jest ailin’, puny like. Dogs ez a lot like -babies; some on ’em could be littered en’ grow up -in a snowdrift, en’ others could be born in a -straw kennel en’ die ef you look at ’em. This one -was so weakly thet Bess, my ole setter, wouldn’t -look at him. Jest poked him eround with her -nose, poor little devil! en’ wouldn’t give him ez -much ez a lick. Et’s a funny thing,” he continued, -stuffing down the embers in his pipe with -a hard forefinger, “th’ difference there ez thet -way between dogs en’ folks. I never seen a -woman yit thet wouldn’t take all kinds o’ keer fer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> -a sick baby, but a dog puts all her nussin’ on her -healthy young uns en’ lets th’ ailin’ shift fer theirselves. -Mebbe et’s because she hez so many all at -once, but I guess it’d be the same with women ef -they hed a dozen at once ez et ez now. The parson -here”—he blinked at Margaret with a suspicion -of levity—“says ez how et’s because th’ -dogs ain’t got no souls. I don’t know how thet -ez, but et looks ez ef et might be so.”</p> - -<p>The rector laughed good-humoredly as the decreasing -figure silhouetted itself against the field. -“Condy’s a unique character,” he said, “but immensely -likable. He has a quaint philosophy -that isn’t down in the books, but it’s none the less -interesting for that. I must be going now,” he -continued; “sermons in stones and books in running -brooks won’t do for my congregation.”</p> - -<p>“You will go up to the house and see Lydia?”</p> - -<p>“I have already seen her. She told me I should -find you somewhere in the fields, she thought. -Your cousin is a great sufferer,” he added gently. -“She is a beautiful character—uncomplaining<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> -under a most grievous affliction. I am deeply -sorry for her, and yet”—there was a note of perplexity -in his voice—“sometimes I believe I pity -her husband even more! I am not well acquainted -with him personally. I wish I might -know him better. She often speaks to me of him. -Her love for him is most exquisite; it always reminds -me of the perfume of the night-blooming-cereus.”</p> - -<p>He took his leave of Margaret with grave -courtesy and left her standing on the leaf-littered -grass, with the red berries of the nightshade -gleaming through the rank green foliage above -her head.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">VIII.</h2></div> - - -<p>Lydia’s reclining chair had been rolled close to -the window and Margaret sat beside her, contemplating -a melancholy drizzle, mingled with -sweeping gusts of rain. The chickens stood in -huddled groups under the garden shrubs, and the -white and yellow chrysanthemums, from their -long, bordering beds, shook out their frowsy -petals and drank rejoicingly. Margaret loved to -watch the splash of the shower upon the fallen -leaves. Her nature reflected no neutral tints; -rain and gray weather to her had never been -coupled with sadness.</p> - -<p>The emaciated hands by her side moved restlessly -in the afghan. “What a bad day for Mell,” -she said. “He is fond of the saddle, and now he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> -will come home wet and cold, before his ride is -half finished.”</p> - -<p>Margaret looked at her curiously. She recalled -Sempire’s stone-bruise and Creed’s version -of it. Melwin she had left only a few -minutes before, sitting statue-like in the library, -with his chin upon his hands. She felt with a -smarting of her eyelids that the pathetic deception -was but a part of the consideration, the tender, -watching guard with which he surrounded -the invalid’s every thoughtfulness of him.</p> - -<p>“Margaret!” Lydia spoke almost appealingly, -laying a hand upon her arm, “do you think Mell -seemed happy to-day? You remember him when -we were married? I’ve seen him toss you many -a time, as a little girl, on his shoulder. Don’t -you remember how he used to laugh when he -would pretend to let you fall over backward? -Does he seem to you to be any different now? -Not older—I don’t mean that (of course he is -some older)—but soberer. He used to have -friends out from the city, and be always bird-hunting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> -or playing polo. I could go with him -then; he liked to have me. He used to say he -wanted to show me off. He seems to be so much -more alone now, and to care less for such things. -At first it made me happy to think that he -couldn’t enjoy them any longer when I couldn’t -share them with him. That was very selfish, I -know, and now his not taking pleasure in them -is a pain to me. I want him to. He is so good to -me! It seems sometimes as if I were a reproach -to him. I am so helpless, useless—such a hindering -burden. I can’t do anything but go on loving -him. If I could only help him! If I could -dust his desk, or fill his pipe, or tend the primroses -he loves, or put the buttons in his shirts for -him, or do any one of the thousand little foolish -things that a woman loves to do for her husband!”</p> - -<p>Reaching over, Margaret patted her hand -gently. The patient eyes looked up at her hungrily.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Margaret, if I could only know that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> -was happy! If I could only fill his life wholly, -completely, to the brim! I feel so bodiless lying -here. Other women must mean so much more to -their husbands. I used to pray to die—to be -taken away from him. I thought that he would -love me better dead. Love doesn’t die that way—it’s -living that kills love. And I couldn’t bear -to think that I might live to see it die slowly, horribly, -little by little; and I watched, oh, so jealously! -for the first sign. It’s a dreadful thing to -be jealous of life! I have thought that if it could -be right for him to marry another woman while -I was still his wife—one who could give him all -I lack—that I would even be content, if he were -only happy! There is just my mind left now for -him to love, and the mind, so denied, rusts -away.”</p> - -<p>“But your <i>soul</i> is alive,” said Margaret softly, -“and that is what we love and love with. It -seems to me that the most beautiful thing in the -world is a love like Melwin’s for you—one that is -all spirit. It is like the love of a child for a white<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> -star, that is not old and dusty like the earth, but -pure and shining and very, very far above its -head. When I was little I used to have one particular -star that I called my own. I wouldn’t -have been happier to have touched it or to have -had it any nearer. I was contented just to look -up to it and love it.”</p> - -<p>“You’re a genuine comforter!” said Lydia, a -smile of something more nearly approaching joy -than Margaret had yet seen there playing upon -her lips. “I am ungrateful. It is wicked of me -to repine as I do! God has given me Mell’s love, -and every day it winds closer around me. And -he loves my soul. I ought to think how much -more blest I am than other women whose husbands -do not care for them! I ought to spend my -time thinking of him and not of myself! Perhaps -I could plan more little pleasures for him. -We used to make so many pretty surprises for -each other, and we got so much happiness out of -them. It is the small things in life that please -us most. When we were first married, I studied<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> -all the little ways. I wore the colors he was fond -of, and did my hair as he thought was most becoming. -Why, I wouldn’t have put on a ribbon -or a flower that I thought he did not like! He -set so much store by those things. Do you see -that big closet on the other side of the room? -Open the door. There are all the dresses that -Mell liked me in when we were married. Do -you see that pearl liberty silk with the valenciennes? -I had that on the last night we ever -danced together—the night before I was hurt. -He liked me best of all in that.”</p> - -<p>She passed her hand caressingly over the shimmering -lengths which Margaret had spread out -across her knees. “You would look well in such -a gown,” she said. “Your hair is like mine was, -only a shade darker. Put the skirt on. There! -It fits you, too!”</p> - -<p>A stir of anticipation, of excitement, overspread -her languor. “I want you to do me a -favor; I don’t believe you’ll mind! Take dinner -to-night with Melwin downstairs. I am tired to-day<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> -and I shall go to sleep early. Wear the dress; -maybe it will remind him of the way I looked -then, when I had the same roses in my cheeks. -He called them holly berries. Will you wear it?”</p> - -<p>Margaret turned away under pretense of examining -the yellow lace. “Oh, yes,” she said, -“and I have a cameo pin that will just suit to -clasp it at the throat.”</p> - -<p>“No, no!” Lydia had half raised herself on -her elbow. “In my box on the dresser is a string -of pearls. Mell gave me them to go with it.”</p> - -<p>She took the ornament and, with an exclamation -of delight, unfastened the neck of her nightgown -and clasped it around her throat. Dropping -her chin to see how the lustreless spheres -drooped across the pitiful hollows of her neck, -she gave them back with a sigh that was sadder -than any words and turned her head wearily on -the pillow.</p> - -<p>Margaret gathered up the garments tenderly, -and bent over and left a light kiss on the faded -cheek as she went from the room.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">IX.</h2></div> - - -<p>Margaret stood before the cheval-glass in -Lydia’s gown, smiling at the quaint reflection. -It showed a figure with slim, pointed waist between -billowy paniers, flounced with Spanish -frill after the fashion of a decade before. The -neck was square-cut and the tight sleeves reached -to the elbow, ending in a fall of lace. It was -not unbecoming to her. Her brown eyes had borrowed -from the pearl tint a misty violet and the -springing growth of her hair had taken on the -shade of wet broom-straw. A faint glow rose -in her cheeks as she surveyed her own stirring -image. She clasped the close necklace of pearls -about her throat. Poor Lydia! Something as -fair she must have looked in that old time so -rudely ended! Poor Melwin!</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>The wide dining-room doors stood open, and -she did not pause, but went directly in. The old -butler stood in the hall, and she noticed wonderingly -that he gazed at her with a scared expression -and moved backward, his arms stretched behind -him in an instinctive gesture of fright which -puzzled her. Were even the ancient servitors of -the house as incomprehensible as was their -master?</p> - -<p>Melwin stood leaning against the polished rosewood -sideboard, his unseeing gaze fixed on a -glass-prismed candelabra of antique workmanship, -whose pendants vibrated ceaselessly. His -lifted stare, which went beyond, suddenly caught -and fastened itself upon her in a look of startled -fascination. His lean fingers gripped the edge -of the wood and he stiffened all over like a wild -animal couched to spring. His shrunken features -were marked with a convulsion of fearful -anguish. Margaret shrank back dismayed at the -lambent fire that had leaped into his colorless -eyes.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>“Lydia!” The cry burst from his lips as he -made a quick step toward her.</p> - -<p>“Why, Melwin!” she gasped, “what is the -matter?”</p> - -<p>The table was between them, but she could -see that he was shaking. His eyes turned from -her to the opposite wall, then back again. Her -gaze followed his and rested upon a splendid full-length -portrait. She knew at once that it was -Lydia. But she saw in that one instant more -than this; she saw her own face, radiant, sparkling, -the same lightened, straw-tinted hair, the -same shadowy violet eyes, the same gown, pearl -gray, quaintly cut, that had faced her in the -depths of the cheval-glass.</p> - -<p>“Melwin, don’t you know me? Why, it’s I—Margaret!”</p> - -<p>His lips lifted from his teeth. Even through -the strained agony of his face, she could have -imagined him about to laugh. It seemed a minute -before his voice came, and when it did it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> -scourged her like a sting of a lash. She cringed -under its livid fury.</p> - -<p>“How dare you? How <i>dare</i> you come to me -like that? Do you think a man is a stone? Do -you think he has no feeling, that you can torture -him like this? Do you think he never remembers -or suffers? Is there nothing in his past -that’s too sacred to lay hands upon?”</p> - -<p>“It was Lydia, Melwin,” cried Margaret, her -fingers wandering stumblingly along the low -neck of the gown; “she asked me to do it. She -thought it would please you. She thought it -would remind you of the way she used to look.”</p> - -<p>“She told you?” A softer expression came to -his face. The hard lines fell away; the weary -ghost of an unborn smile hovered on his lips, -trembling and pathetic.</p> - -<p>“Don’t care! Please, please don’t look so! I -didn’t think! I will go away at once and take -the dress off.”</p> - -<p>He laid his arms upon the back of a chair and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> -dropped his head upon them. “Don’t mind me, -child,” he said brokenly; “you couldn’t help it. -You didn’t understand. When a man’s flesh has -been bruised with pincers, when his sinews have -been wrenched and dragged as mine have, he -does not take kindly to the rack. You could -have wrung my heart out of my body to-night -with your hands, and it would not have hurt so -much.”</p> - -<p>“I am so sorry!” Margaret breathed, warm -gushes of pity sweeping over her. “You could -never guess how sorry I am!”</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” he said more calmly, “that I have -been a puzzle to you. You were too young to -know me when I <i>lived</i>. I am only half alive -now. Life has gone by and left me stranded. -Look at that picture, child. That was Lydia—the -Lydia of the best years of my life—the Lydia -that I loved and won and married! Twelve -years! How long ago it seems!”</p> - -<p>Margaret had seated herself opposite him and -leaned forward, her bare elbows on the table and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> -her locked fingers against her cheek. “I—understand -now.” Her voice was a strenuous -whisper.</p> - -<p>“You will know what that is some time—to feel -one nearer than all the world—to tremble when -her arm presses yours, to listen for the swish of -her skirt, to turn hot and cold at the smell of her -hair or the touch of her lips! She was beautiful—more -beautiful to me than any woman I had -ever seen, or ever shall see. She filled every corner -of me! Life was complete. It had nothing -left to give me. Can you think what that means? -You know what happened then. It came crashing -in upon my youth like a falling tower. Since -then the years have gone by, but they stopped -for me that day.”</p> - -<p>An intenser look was in Margaret’s eyes. -“But you have Lydia—you love her!”</p> - -<p>He breathed sharply. “Have her!” he repeated. -“I have her mind, her soul, the intellect -that answered mine, the soul that leaned to my -soul, but <i>her</i>—<i>her</i>—the body I held, the woman<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> -I caressed, the fragrant life I touched—where -is it? Where? I love her!” he cried with abrupt -passion. “I loved her then; I love her now. -I have never loved another woman! I never think -a thought that is not of her. My very dreams, my -imagination are hers! I would rather die than -love another woman!</p> - -<p>“I suppose people pity me and think how hard -it was that Lydia’s accident couldn’t have happened -before we were married instead of afterward. -Fools! <i>Fools!</i> As though that would -make it different! If it must have been, I -wouldn’t have it otherwise. Not to possess -wholly the woman one loves is the cruelty of -Love; the pain of knowing that no other love -can possess you is the mercy of Love. Such -misery is dearer than all other joys. She is <i>mine</i>, -and with every breath that I curse Fate with I -thank God for her!”</p> - -<p>“Isn’t that happiness?”</p> - -<p>He laughed, a short, jarring, mirthless laugh -that hurt her. “Do you think,” he said, “that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> -that is all a man craves? Can a man—a living, -breathing man—live on soul alone? Can you -feed a starving human being on philosophy? -His stomach cries for bread! You can quench -his spiritual thirst while his heart dries up with -physical drought. He wants both sides. With -one unsatisfied, he goes halting, crippled. I live -in my past and feed on the husks of it. Do you -think they fill me? I tell you, I go always -hungry—always famishing for what other men -have!”</p> - -<p>Margaret felt as if she were being wafted -through some intangible inferno of suffering. -She felt smothered, as by the dust of some dead -thing into whose open grave she had unwittingly -stumbled. The real Melwin that she had waked -terrified her. The glimpse through the torn -mask, into the distorted face, with its marks of -branding, shook the depths of her nature. She -had always thought of Melwin abstractly, as of a -beautiful personality, crowned with spiritual -stars and haloed with pain; now she saw him as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> -he was—a half-man, decrepit, moribund, his passion -no living glow, but a flitting and unreal fox-fire, -which he must follow, follow, grasping at, -but never gaining. The dreadful unfulfilment of -his life’s promise sat upon his brow and cried to -her from every word and gesture. She felt as if -she was gazing at some mysterious and but half-indicated -problem to which there could be no -answer.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>That was a meal which Margaret never afterward -remembered without a recoil. A chilling -self-consciousness had fallen upon her and clogged -her tongue. Melwin ate hastily and almost -fiercely, saying nothing, and once half rising, it -seemed in utter forgetfulness of her presence, -and then sitting down again. She excused herself -before the coffee and slipped away, running -hastily up the stair to her room, her feet catching -in the unaccustomed tightness of the old-fashioned -skirt.</p> - -<p>As she turned the key in the lock, she fancied<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span> -she heard a moan through the thick walls of -Lydia’s room, and she tore off the garments with -feverish haste, shutting them from her sight in -the carved Dutch chest which filled one corner, -releasing, as she did so, a pungent odor of cedar; -not the fresh, resinous smell of sappy forest-growth, -but the dead-faint aroma of the past—the -perfume that belonged to Lydia’s gown, to -Melwin, and to that gloomy house and all it contained.</p> - -<p>She pushed open the heavy blinds and leaned -across the window ledge, questioning. Melwin -was a man—but Lydia? Had she also this inner -buried side, which in him had been shocked into -betrayal? Were men and women alike? Were -their longings and cravings the same? Was -there something in the one which felt and answered -the every need of the other? Was spiritual -attraction forever dependent for its completion -upon physical love? The thought came to -her that in the long years Melwin had become less -himself; that his brooding mind had perhaps lost<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> -its balance; that what to a healthier mind would -be but a shadow had grown for him a threatening -phantom. Her heart was full of a vague protest -against the suggestion which had thrust itself -upon her.</p> - -<p>Her spiritual side reached out groping hands -for comfort and sustenance.</p> - -<p>Drawing down the window, she turned into the -room. A ponderous Bible in huge blocked leathern -covers lay on the low table, its antiquated -silver clasps winking in the light from the -pronged candlestick. With a sudden impulse, -she threw it open, leaning forward, her fingers -nervously ruffling its edges. This was the soul-comforter -of the ages. It must help her.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>“Hadad died also. And the dukes of Edom -were; duke Timnah, duke Aliah, duke Jetheth,</p> - -<p>“Duke Aholibamah, duke Elah, duke Pimon.”</p></blockquote> - -<p>The musty chronicle meant nothing. She -turned again, parting the leaves near to the end.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>“Salute Prisca and Aquila, and the household -of Onesiphorus.</p> - -<p>“Erastus abode at Corinth: but Trophimus -have I left at Miletum sick.”</p></blockquote> - -<p>She almost laughed at the banality of her haphazard -choice. She knew the pages full of condemnation -for the unworthy thought. Now they -mocked her. Impatiently she opened the huge -volume wide in the middle. A new and intense -eagerness illumed her face as her eyes rested -on the page:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>“Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou -art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes.</p> - -<p>“My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise -up, my love, my fair one, and come away.</p> - -<p>“By night on my bed I sought him whom my -soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him -not.</p> - -<p>“My beloved is white and ruddy, the chiefest -among ten thousand.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>“His head is as the most fine gold, his locks are -bushy, and black as a raven.</p> - -<p>“His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers -of waters, washed with milk, and fitly set.</p> - -<p>“His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet -flowers: his lips like lilies, dropping sweet-smelling -myrrh.* * *</p> - -<p>“His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether -lovely.”</p></blockquote> - -<p>She looked up startled, her breath struggling -in her breast; a deep, vivid blush spread over her -face and neck, glowing crimson against the -whiteness of her apparel.</p> - -<p>The room seemed suddenly dense with a dank, -spicy smell of roses mixed with salty wind. It -spread from the pages of the book and hung -wreathing about her till the air was filled with -fiery flowers. She felt herself burning hot, as if -a flame were scorching her flesh. In the emptiness -of the room, she caught her hands to her -cheeks shamedly, lest the world could see that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> -tell-tale color. Even the dim candles’ light -angered her, and she blew them out, creeping into -the soft bed hastily, as though into a hiding-place.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">X.</h2></div> - - -<p>For some days after her unforgettable meeting -with Daunt in the woods, Margaret had not left -the house. She had spent much of her time -reading to Lydia. There was a never lessening -sorrow in the invalid’s gaze that affected her, -full as was her mind of her own thoughts, and -she had been glad to sit with her to escape the -slow-burning fires that haunted her in Melwin’s -opaque eyes.</p> - -<p>She had almost a fear to venture beyond the -shelter of this cheerless home—a fear of what -she longed for unspeakably and as unspeakably -dreaded. She told herself that Daunt was gone, -that he had returned to the city, that she would -not see him again at Warne. And yet her inmost<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> -wish belied the thought. He had gone away -believing her cruel. The memory tortured her. -An instinctive modesty, as innate as her conscience, -had made it impossible for her to express -in words the distinction which her own sensitiveness -had drawn. To think of it was an intangible -agony; to voice it was to penetrate the -veiled sanctuary of her woman-soul.</p> - -<p>But the afternoon following Melwin’s outburst -in the dining-room, her flagging spirits and the -smell of the cropped fields drew her out of doors. -She was sore with a sense of reproach at her own -unthinking blunder. Since then she had not seen -Melwin. She felt how awkward would be the -next meeting.</p> - -<p>The sunlight splintered against low-sailing -clumps of vapor which extended to the horizon, -and the chill of the air prompted her to walk -briskly. She did not take the wood road, but -kept to the open country, following the maple-lined -footpath that boarded the rusting hedgerows. -There was little promise in the drooping,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> -despondent sky. A shiver of wind was in the -tall grasses and a far whistling of a flock of -marsh-birds came to her over the moist fallow.</p> - -<p>A darting chipmunk made her turn her head, -and she became conscious that a figure was close -behind her. An intuitive knowledge flashed -upon her that it was Daunt. A vibrant thrill -shot through her limbs and she felt her cheeks -heating.</p> - -<p>“Margaret! Margaret!”</p> - -<p>She turned her head where he stood uncovered -behind her. His left wrist was bound tightly -with a black band, and he carried his arm thrust -between the buttons of his jacket.</p> - -<p>“I am disabled for riding, you see,” he said, -smiling. “My wrist has gone lame on me. You -see I am stopping at Tenbridge, and I walked -over the hill.”</p> - -<p>The ease and naturalness of his opening disarmed -her. She caught herself smiling back at -him.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>“I’m so sorry about your wrist,” she said. -“Does it pain you much?”</p> - -<p>“Only when I forget and use it. Did you -think I would come back again?” This with -blunt directness.</p> - -<p>She made him no answer.</p> - -<p>“Do you know, I have been here every day -since I saw you. I’ve spent the hours haunting -the road through the woods and tramping these -paths between the fields.”</p> - -<p>“I have not been out of the house since then,” -she answered.</p> - -<p>“Why not?”</p> - -<p>“Can’t you guess why?”</p> - -<p>“Were you afraid you might see me?”</p> - -<p>“I—I didn’t know.”</p> - -<p>“Look here, dear,” he said, “you know I don’t -want to persecute you. If you will only tell me -truly that you don’t love me, I will go away at -once and never see you again. But I believe that -there is no other thing in life worth setting -against love. It means my happiness and yours,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> -and it would be cowardly for me to give you up -for anything but your happiness. Can’t we reason -a little about it?”</p> - -<p>She shook her head hopelessly. “It wouldn’t -help. I have reasoned and reasoned, and it only -makes me wretched.”</p> - -<p>His brows knit perplexedly. He stopped and -faced her in the path. “Do you think that I have -come to you for any other reason than that I -want you, that you mean more to me now than -you ever did? That I love you more—<i>more</i>—since -I know you love me wholly? You have -loved me, absolutely. Now you are refusing to -marry me! Why? Why? Why?”</p> - -<p>Margaret’s flush had deepened. While he had -been speaking, she had several times flung out -her hand in mute protest. “Oh!” she said, “how -can I make you understand? Love is strange -and terrible. It isn’t enough to love with the -earth-side of us! Why”—her voice vibrated -with a little tremor—“I would love you just the -same if I knew you <i>had</i> no soul—if there was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> -only the human feel of you, and if I knew you -must die like a dumb beast and not go to my -heaven. If I knew that I should never see you -again after this life, I would love you and long -for you, just the same, now and afterward! Oh, -there must be something wrong with my soul! -That kind of a love is wrong. It’s the love of the -flesh! Don’t you see? Can’t you see it’s wrong?”</p> - -<p>Daunt struck savagely at the wiry beard-grasses -with the stick he carried. This doubt -was so irrational, so unwholesome to his healthy -mind that to argue it filled him with a dumb -anger. He groaned inwardly. She was impossible!</p> - -<p>“You give no credit,” he slowly said at last, -“to your humanity. In a woman of your soul-sensitiveness, -it is unthinkable that the one -should exist without the other. Soul and sense -react upon each other. Bodily love, in people -who possess spirituality, who are not mere clods, -dependent upon their eyes and appetites for all -life gives them, presupposes spiritual affinity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span> -The physical may be the lesser side of us, but it -is not necessarily the lower. Whatever there is -in Nature is there because it ought to be. If we -cannot see its beauty or its meaning, let us not -blame Nature; let us blame ourselves.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t think,” said Margaret, “that I haven’t -thought all that! It is so easy to reason around -to what we <i>want</i> to believe. It doesn’t make me -happy to think as I do, but I can’t help it! We -can’t make ourselves <i>feel</i>. <i>I</i> can’t! What good -would it do me to make myself <i>think</i> I believed -that? You would soon see what I lacked, and I -would know it, and we would be chained to each -other while our souls shrivelled. Oh,” she -ended with almost a sob, “I am so utterly -miserable!”</p> - -<p>Daunt felt a mad desire to take that near-by -form in his arms, to soothe her and comfort her. -He felt as if she were squeezing his heart small -with her hands. He was silent. Then his resentful -will rose in an ungovernable flood.</p> - -<p>“Do you suppose I intend to break my life in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> -two for a quibble—for a baseless fancy? I tell -you, you’re wrong! You’re wrong! You’ve -tangled yourself up in a lot of sophistry! Don’t -think I am going to give up. I won’t! You -shall come to yourself! You shall! You <i>shall</i>!”</p> - -<p>Margaret felt the leap of his will as an unbroken -pacer the unexpected flick of a whip-thong. -It was a new sensation. It had a tang -of mastery, of domination, that was strange to -her. She was unprepared for such a situation. -She looked at him half stealthily. In the lines of -his mouth there was an unfamiliar sovereignty. -She felt that deliciousness of revolt which every -strong woman feels at the first contact with an -overbearing masculinity. A swift suggestion of -the potentiality of his unyielding purpose stabbed -her.</p> - -<p>“And the rain descended and the floods came -and the winds blew and beat upon that house; -and it fell: and great was the fall of it.” A -flitting memory brought the parable to her mind. -Could it be that the house of her defence was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> -built upon the sands? “And the rain descended -and the floods came and the winds blew”—the -first promise of the tempest was in his eyes. A -fear of yielding insinuated itself darkly. The -set intentness of his obstinacy lingered after his -words, hung about her in the air and pressed -upon her with the weight of an unescapable -necessity. Her breath strained her.</p> - -<p>All at once she turned, speaking rapidly, incoherently. -“Don’t—don’t talk to me like that! -Don’t argue with me! I can’t bear it—now! -I’m all at sea; I’m a ship without a captain. -Don’t bend me; I was never made to be bent. I -have got to think for myself. You must go away—indeed, -you must! Somehow, to talk about it -makes it so much worse. I can’t discuss it! -Don’t ask me any more! Oh, I know you think -I’m unreasonable. It sounds unreasonable sometimes, -even to myself. I wish you wouldn’t -blame me, but I know you must. You can’t help -it. I blame myself, and I hurt myself, and the -blame and the want and the hurt are all mixed up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> -together! If you care—if you care anything for -me, you will go away! You won’t come again. -I hurt you when you do, and I can’t bear to do it.”</p> - -<p>Daunt nodded, took her hand, held it a moment, -and then released it. “Very well,” he said -quietly and sadly. He did not offer to kiss her. -The fire had died out of his voice and there was -left only a constrained sorrow. But it had no -note of despair. Its resignation was just as wilful -as had been its assertive passion. He looked at -her a moment lingeringly, then turned and vaulting -the hedge, with squared shoulders and swinging -stride, struck off across the stubble of the -fields.</p> - -<p>Margaret did not look back, but she knew he -had not turned his head. Then a long sigh escaped -her.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">XI.</h2></div> - - -<p>Her blood coursed drummingly as she went -back along the road, half running, her hat fallen, -held by the loose ribbon under her chin, her hands -opening and closing nervously. Her head was -high and her mood struck through her like the -smell of turned earth to a wild thing of the jungle. -She wanted action, hard movement, and she ran -with fingers spread to feel the breeze. Her -thoughts were a tumult—her feelings one massing, -striving storm of voices, through which ran -constant, vibrating, a single, insistent, dominant -chord.</p> - -<p>“You <i>shall</i>! You <small>SHALL</small>!” she repeated under -her breath. “Why do I like that? It’s sweeter -than bells! I can hear him say it yet. It was -like a hand, pulling me!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>She stopped stock-still, suddenly, gazing at the -fallen purple-and-crimson autumn leaves, a -poured-out glory of color at her feet. “Splendid!” -she said. She bent and swept up a great -armful and tossed the clean, wispy, crackling -things in the air. They fell in a whirling shower -over her face, catching in her hair. In the midst -of them she laughed aloud, every chord of her -body sounding. Then, with a quick revulsion, -she threw out her arms and sank panting on the -selvage of the field.</p> - -<p>“What can I do? What can I do?” she said. -“I’m afraid! I can’t go on fighting this way! -It—drags me so.” Her fingers were pulling up -the tapery grass-spears in a sinister terror. “I -felt so strong the last few weeks, and it’s gone—utterly -gone! Why—it went when I first looked -at his face. If he had kissed me again, this -time; if—if he had held me as he did that other -day—in the woods—oh, my heart’s water! -There’s something in me that <i>won’t</i> fight. The -ground goes from under my feet. It’s dreadful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> -to feel this way! His hair smelled like—roses! -If I had dared kiss it! I ought to be sorry and -I’m—not! I’m ashamed to be glad, and I’m glad -to be ashamed!”</p> - -<p>She felt herself shivering, resentful of the ecstasy -of sweetness that lapped and folded her. -The dull glow of the sky irritated her with its -very serenity.</p> - -<p>“If I only hadn’t seen him! If I had been -strong enough not to! It’s ungenerous of him. -He ought to leave. He ought to have gone away -after that last time! He <i>ought</i>!”</p> - -<p>But if he had! The thought obtruded itself. -She had longed for him to come; she knew, down -in her soul, she had. Her heart had given her -lips the lie. The woman in her had betrayed her -conscience.</p> - -<p>“It’s the truth!” she cried, lifting her hand. -“It’s the truth! Oh, if he hadn’t come—<i>if—he—hadn’t</i>!” -She muttered it to the wind by the -loneliness of the slashed hedges. “That would -have been the one last terrible thing. It would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> -have crushed me! I could never have been glad -again. I’m sick now with desolation at the -thought of it! It’s easier not to be able to forgive -myself than it would be not to be able to forgive -him! But he <i>did</i> come! He wants me!” -Her voice had a quiver of exultation. “Nothing -on earth ever can rob me of that!—nothing!”</p> - -<p>She pressed her arm against her eyes till her -sight blent in golden-lettered flashes. The one -presence was all about her; she could even feel his -breath against her hair. His eyes had been the -color of deep purple grapes under morning dew. -The old hunger for him, for his hand, his voice, -swept down upon her, and she crouched closer to -the ground wet with fog-dew, striking the sod -hard with her hands. He had come. He was -there. He never would go—she knew that. If -he stayed, she must yield. She had been perilously -close to it that day.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>After a time she became quieter and drew from -her skirt pocket a crumpled letter, received that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> -morning after three re-forwardings. It was in a -decisive feminine hand, and spreading it before -her, Margaret turned several pages and began to -read:</p> - -<p>“Your letter has somehow distressed me,” it -read. “It seemed unlike your old self. It seemed -sad. I imagine that you are troubled about something. -Is it only that you are tired and dissatisfied? -I have wondered much about you since -you left the city in the spring. What have you -been doing? How have you spent the time in the -stale places of idleness? I have been so busy -here at the hospital that I have seen none of our -old friends. Time goes so quickly when you like -your work! And I enjoy mine. It has come to -mean a great deal to me. Dr. Goodno intends -soon, he says, to put me in charge of the children’s -ward. Poor little things! They suffer so much -more uncomplainingly than grown folks. Dr. -Goodno is our superintendent and Mrs. Goodno -is superintendent of nurses. She has been so dear -and kind to me, one could not help loving her. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> -hardly seems possible that I have been here three -whole years.</p> - -<p>“Margaret, have you ever thought seriously of -the last letter I wrote you? There is a great deal -of compensation in this life, and I have thought -sometimes (I know you’ll forgive me for saying -it) that you needed some experience like this. -Every woman ought to be the better for it. You -are my dearest friend, and if I could only show -you something—some new satisfaction in living—something -to take you out of yourself more, I -would be so glad.</p> - -<p>“I have told Mrs. Goodno so much about you, -and she would welcome you here, I know. It -might be just what you need. You know the -nurses are taken on three months’ probation, and -there is no compulsion to stay. If you did not -like it, you could leave at any time, and you would -be the gainer by the experience. You need no -preparation. Just telegraph me at any time and -come.”</p> - -<p>A resolution had formed itself rapidly in Margaret’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> -mind. Thrusting the letter deep into her -pocket, she walked swiftly up the path to the -house. She sent Creed with a telegram before -she entered the library. Melwin was standing -with his back to her, staring out through the -leaded diamonds of the window. He turned -slowly, gazing over her shoulder. His face had -lapsed into its habitual neutral passiveness. His -pupils had contracted into their peculiar unrefracting -dulness, and his hands hung without -motion.</p> - -<p>“Melwin,” she said, “I’m going back to the -city. I have received a letter which makes it -necessary. I think I will take the evening train.”</p> - -<p>He turned again to the window. “Must you—go?” -His voice was toneless and dull.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she answered. “I will look in and say -good-by to Lydia.” She waited a moment uncertainly, -but he did not speak, and she left him -standing there.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Turning the knob of Lydia’s door softly, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> -pushed it open and entered. Lydia lay with her -face turned toward the wall; her regular breathing -showed that she slept. Margaret could not bear -to awaken her. A wavering smile was on her -parted lips and gave a fragile loveliness to the -delicate transparency of her skin. Perhaps a -happy dream had come for awhile to beckon her -from ever-present pain. Perhaps she was dreaming -that she was well and knew and filled a strong -man’s yearning.</p> - -<p>Margaret closed the door noiselessly. Going -to her room, she pencilled a little note, and tiptoeing -cautiously back through the hall, slipped -the missive under Lydia’s door.</p> - -<p>And this was her farewell.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">XII.</h2></div> - - -<p>Across the country Daunt strode, paying little -heed to his direction. He skirted one field, -crossed another, swung through a gully, scrambled -along a gravel-pit, climbed a hilly slope, and -cut across in a wide circuit. He thought that -physical weariness might bring mental relief. -He paused for a moment by the edge of a clayey -bank, in which a multitude of tiny sand-swallows—winged -cliff-dwellers—had pecked them -vaulted homes. He thrust his stick gently into -one of the openings and smiled to see the bridling -anger of its feathered inhabitant.</p> - -<p>Seating himself upon a pile of split rails in a -fence corner, he dropped into reverie. He was -conscious of an immense depression. The past -few weeks had brought him nearer to realizing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> -how much Margaret meant, not only to himself, -but to his labor in the world, than he had ever -been before. His artistic temperament had -pointed him a dreamer, but his natural earnestness -had made him a laborious one. His ideals -were fresh and strong, and the world of tangled -interests and woven ambitions had stood before -him always, mute, importunate, a place to make -them real. In man’s ear there sound ever three -voices: the brazen-throated throng, the silver-throated -few and the golden-throated one. This -last voice Daunt had learned to listen to. He -had made Margaret his unconscious motive. The -best of his written work had been done at the -huge antique mahogany desk under her picture. -What she had been to his work, what she was -then, showed him what her presence or absence -in his life must inevitably mean. He realized the -truth of what he had once scoffed at, that behind -every man’s success lies the heart of a woman.</p> - -<p>He felt a profound disheartenment. His mind -skimmed the waste of his younger years. It saw<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> -his toils as little things and the work he had -praised in himself as that of a trifler. He knew -now his capacities for ambition. He saw inspiration -for the first time as, on a twilit highway, one -sees a fancied bush, with a sudden movement, resolve -itself into a human figure. He saw his -past, harvestless. Fate had taken his youth, like -a handful of sand, and fed it to the sea! Since -Margaret had gone, his work had been purposeless, -barren—it wanted her presence.</p> - -<p>He had lighted his pipe mechanically, and -through the blue-pale smoke whorls, a near bush -took on the outline of her clear profile, reclined -against a dusky cushion. His longing filled the -silence with an inward voice:</p> - -<p>“You are the woman,” it said, “that I have -always wanted! I want you all! I want your -childish shallows and your womanly deeps! I -want your weakness and your strength! I -want you just as you are, no different—you, yourself.”</p> - -<p>She was sitting before him now in the firelight<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> -of her room, where the tongues of the burning -drift-wood and salt-dusted larch sprang up, blue, -magenta and purplish-green, prickling the brass-work -of the fireplace into a thousand many-colored -points, and he was leaning forward, speaking, -with his bare heart behind set lips: “I love -you. All that I have for you that you will not -own! All that you might be to me that you will -not give!”</p> - -<p>He felt her present trouble vaguely and with -the same impotent resentment that he had felt -in that far-off yet ridiculously near child-life, -when in all the lofty manhood of his eight years -he had defied the cliff-winds—that childhood -which lived in his memory as a stretch of sun-drowned -sea-beach swept by wind; a dim background -in a frame of sharp outline, which held -little images of delicate fragrance, clear and -sweet, on the retina of his memory. This woman -met him in a pain, measured by his added years, -that he was powerless to appease.</p> - -<p>Knocking the cold ashes from his pipe, Daunt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> -rose and stretched his arms wide along the topmost -rail of the shambling fence and gazed out -across the evening hills, blurred by the blue of -distance, into the red sunset. Far to the left, -glooming from encircling elms, lay the house that -sheltered Margaret. Down below him, in the -railroad cut, crawled a deliberate tank-train. -From where he stood, he could see the ungainly -arm of the slung pipe, through which the thirsty -engine drank deep draughts. Sitting in the chill -air had told him his fatigue, and his wrist had -grown stiff and painful. He felt unequal to the -long walk across to Tenbridge, and, consulting -his watch, reflected that the city-bound train, almost -due, would carry him to the little Guthrie -junction, shortening his walk by half.</p> - -<p>He pushed rapidly down the hill road, grateful -for the heat of renewed motion. The station was -deserted. One shabby hack drowsed driverless -under the shed, and even the ticket agent had apparently -forsaken his grating.</p> - -<p>Sauntering across the platform, Daunt leaned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> -against the signal-post, on whose swinging arm -a round, fevered eye watched, unwinkingly and -angry, for the distant train, fast growing from a -bright pin point to a blazing blotch of yellow, between -the spun-out rails. Its attenuated rumbling -had swelled to a trembling roar. His pre-occupation -was so deep that the clamorous iron -thing was upon him almost before he heard it. -The surprise jarred him into sudden movement, -and it was then that his tired limbs lurched under -him; the sucking vortex of the hurtling mass -threw him off his balance, he wavered, stumbled, -fell—and the pitiless armored monster, plunging, -gigantic, regardless, caught him on its mailed -side and passed on, to shudder, to slow, to stop—too -late!</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">XIII.</h2></div> - - -<p>The gas lamps had been early lit and threw -flaring streaks of white across the dingy platform -as Margaret reached the station. She had -stood on the top of the little slope, looking back -across the fields, grown dim and mysterious in -the purpling dusk, with a tightening of the -throat. However unhappy she had been here, -yet she had seen Daunt. He had stood with her -by those dwarfed hedges, he had pleaded with her -under the flaming boughs of those woods. She -could still feel the strong pressure of his lips upon -her hand as he besought her for what she could -have given him so eagerly, so gladly, so joyously -if she had dared. She was leaving him there, and -the parting now seemed so much more than that -other seaside flight, when she had been stung to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> -action by her own self-reproach. Making her -mute farewell, she heard a shriek of steam, as the -train came shuddering into the station, drawing -long, labored breaths like some chained serpent -monster, overtired, and she hastened stumblingly, -uncertainly over the stony road. When she -reached the platform, she was out of breath and -panting, and did not notice the knot of trainmen, -with beckoning arms and dangling lanterns, -by the side of the track.</p> - -<p>She sank into her Pullman seat wearily. Several -windows were open and inquiring heads were -thrust forth. She was conscious of a subdued -excitement in the air. A conductor passed hurriedly -through the coach and swung himself -deftly off the end. People about her asked each -other impatiently why the train did not start, and -a sallow-faced woman with a false front hoped -nervously and audibly that nothing was the matter. -A sudden whisper spread itself from chair -to chair, and a man came back from the smoking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> -compartment to seat himself beside his wife, and -pulled down the window-shade with low whisperings.</p> - -<p>“An accident. A man hurt.”</p> - -<p>Margaret heard it with a tremor. She tried to -raise her window, but the latch caught, and she -placed her face close to the pane to peer out. Up -the platform tramped four trainmen, bloused and -grimy with coal-dust, carrying between them a -board, covered with tarpaulin, under which -showed clearly the outlines of a human figure.</p> - -<p>Margaret caught her breath and drew back -with a sudden feeling of faintness. There were -a few tense moments of waiting. Then a quiver -ran through the heavy trucks, there was a sharp -whistle, a snort of escaping steam, and past her -window moved slowly back the station lamps. A -porter went toward the baggage-car, his arms -piled high with white towels, which threw his -ebony face into sharp contrast. The forward -conductor leaned over the occupant of the chair<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> -across from Margaret to borrow his flask, and -went out with it. She realized from this that the -injured one was on the train.</p> - -<p>He was probably at that moment lying on the -floor of the baggage-car, amid a litter of trunks -and bags. Men were bending over him to see if -he lived or died. Five minutes ago he had been -as full of life and strength and breath as she. -Now he lay stricken and maimed and ghastly, a -huddle of bleeding flesh and torn sinew, perhaps -never again to see the smile of the sunlight, or, -perhaps, to live mutilated and broken and disfigured, -his every breath a pain, his every pulse a -pang. Perhaps he had loved ones—a <i>one</i> loved -one, who had hung about his neck and kissed him -when he went away. What of that love when -they should bring this object back to her?</p> - -<p>A hideous question of the lastingness of human -love flung itself from the darkness without in -upon her brain. One could love when the face -was fair, when the form was supple and straight, -when the eyes were clear and the blood was young<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> -with the flush of life! One could still love when -age had grayed the hair and the kindly years had -bowed the back. Mutual love need not dim with -time, but only mellow into the peaceful content -of fruition.</p> - -<p>But let that straight form be struck down in its -prime: a misstep, a slip in the crowded street, a -broken rail, an explosion in a chemist’s shop, -and in an instant the beauty is scarred, the symmetrical -limb is twisted, the tender face is seamed -and gnarled. The loved form has gone, and in its -place is left a shape of pain, of repulsion, of -undelight. Ah! what of that love then?</p> - -<p>Margaret shivered as if with cold. How could -<i>she</i> answer that? There was a love that did not -live and die in the beating of the heart, which -did not fade into darkness when its outer shell -perished. That was the spirit love. That was -the love of the mother for the child, of the soul -for the kindred soul. That was the love that endured. -It was the only love which justified itself. -It was this that God intended when He put man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> -and woman in the earth to cherish one another -and gave them living souls which spoke a common -language. Better a million times crush -from the heart any lesser habitant! Better an -empty soul, swept and garnished, than a chamber -of banqueting for a fleshly guest!</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Woman’s heart is the Great Questioner. When -Doubt waves it from natural interrogation of the -world about it, it turns with fearful and inevitable -questionings upon itself, until the sky which had -been thronged with quiring seraphim flocks -thick with sneering devils. “Do you think,” insinuates -the Tempter mockingly, “that this beautiful -dove-eyed love of yours can stand the ultimate -test? Have you tried it? You have seen loves -just as beautiful, just as young, go down into the -pit. Do you dream that yours can endure? Strip -from your love the subtle magnetism of the body, -take from it the hand-touch, the lip-caress, the -pride of the eye, and what have you left? The -hand grows palsied, the lips shrivel, the eye leadens,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> -and love’s body dies. What then? Ah, -what then!</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The darkness had fallen more thickly without, -and Margaret saw her face reflected from the -window-pane, as in a tarnished and trembling -mirror. Her own eyes gazed back at her. She -put up her hands and rubbed them against the -glass, as though to erase the image she saw.</p> - -<p>“Don’t look so,” she said, half aloud. “What -right have you to look so good? Don’t you know -that if you had staid, if you had seen him again, -you would have thought as he did? You couldn’t -have helped it! You couldn’t! You had to run -away! You didn’t want to come! You wish -you were back again now! You—you do! You -want him. You want him just as you did—then! -That’s the worst of it.”</p> - -<p>The face in the glass made her no answer. It -angered her that those eyes would offer no glance -of self-defence, and, with a quick impulse, she -reached up and drew down the shade.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>The whir and click of the flying wheels jarred -through her brain. She had a sense of estrangement -from herself. She felt almost as though -she were two persons. The one Margaret riding -in her pillowed chair, with her mind a turmoil of -evil doubts, and the other Margaret rushing on -by her side through the outer night, calm-eyed -and untroubled, and these two almost touching -and yet separated by an infinite distance. They -could never clasp each other again. She had a -vague feeling that there was a deeper purpose of -punishment in this. She herself had raised the -ghost which must haunt her.</p> - -<p>She hardly noted the various stations as the -train stopped and breathed a moment, and then -dashed on. Try as she would, her thoughts recurred -to the baggage-car and the burden it carried. -She wondered whether they would put it -off quickly at the terminal, and what it would look -like. It was for such things that hospitals were -built, and to a hospital with all that it implied, she -was bound. New and torturing doubts of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> -own strength beset her. She was afraid. In her -imagination she already smelled the sickening -sweet halitus of iodoform and saw white-aproned -nurses winding endless bandages upon bleeding -gashes that would not be stanched.</p> - -<p>An engulfing rumbling told her that they were -entering the city tunnel, and near-by passengers -began a deliberate assortment of wraps and parcels. -The porter passed through the train, loudly -announcing the last stop. There was almost a -relief to Margaret’s overwrought sensibilities in -his sophisticated utterance. It was a part of the -great cube-jumbled, fish-ribbed metropolis, with -its clanging noises and its swirl of cañoned living -for which during the past weeks she had thirsted -feverishly. She felt, without putting it into actual -mental expression, that surcharged thought -might find relief in simple things.</p> - -<p>Lois would be waiting there to meet her. She -would be glad to see her. It was pleasant to be -loved and looked for. A moment or two more -and the white, smoky haze that blotted the car<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> -windows lifted, and in place of the milky opaque -squares appeared glimpses of wide-lit spaces and -springing ironwork. The car hesitated, shocked -itself with a succession of gentle jars, and came -heavily to a halt. They were in the station.</p> - -<p>Margaret alighted on the platform with limbs -numb and tired. The strain of the day had given -her a yearning for quiet, for the abandon of a -deep chair with soft cushions, and a cup of tea. -She met Lois with outstretched arms and a wan -and uncertain smile against which her lips feebly -protested.</p> - -<p>“Why, Margaret, dear, how tired you look!” -said Lois, kissing her. “Come, and we’ll get a -cab just outside. Your train was very late. I -thought you never <i>would</i> get here at all!”</p> - -<p>Margaret clung to Lois’s hands. “O—h,” she -said, falteringly, “do we have to go up the whole -length of the train?”</p> - -<p>“Why, yes; are you so very tired?”</p> - -<p>“No—but——” she stopped, ashamed of her -weakness. She was coming to be a nurse—to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> -learn to care for sick people and to dress wounds. -What would Lois think of her? “Do—do they -unload the baggage-car now?”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Lois, cheerfully, “we’ll leave your -checks here; it won’t be necessary to wait for the -trunks. Come, dear!” She led the way up -the thronged platform. “Hurry!” she said suddenly, -“there is a case in the baggage-car. I -wonder where it’s going! Oh, you poor darling!”</p> - -<p>Margaret had turned very pale and leaned -against a waiting truck for support.</p> - -<p>“I forgot. That <i>is</i> a rather stiff beginning for -you, isn’t it? I’m <i>so</i> sorry! I hope you didn’t -see; it looks like a bad one. Don’t watch it, dear. -That’s right! You won’t mind it a bit after a -while. You’re quite worn out now. Come, we’ll -go around this other way.”</p> - -<p>“It happened at Warne,” said Margaret, tremulously. -“I saw them take him on.”</p> - -<p>“Poor dear! and you must have been worrying -about it all the way in. Do you see the ambulance -at the curb? That’s ours. You see, they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> -telegraphed, and now he will be cared for sooner -than you get your tea. There goes the ambulance -gong! They’re off. And now here’s the -cab.”</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">XIV.</h2></div> - - -<p>An hour later, Margaret, somewhat composed -from her ride, waited in the homelike bedroom -for Lois to come and take her to Mrs. Goodno, -the Superintendent of Nurses. From her post -at the window she could look down upon the -street.</p> - -<p>It had begun to rain, and the electric lights -hurled misshapen Swedish-yellow splotches on -the wet asphalt. The wind had risen, rending the -clouds into shaggy lines and made a dreary, disconsolate -singing in the web of telephone wires -bracketed beneath the window. Margaret felt herself -to be in a state of unnatural tension. She gazed -out into the swathing darkness, trying desperately -to make out the landscape. Her eyes wandered -from the clumps of wet and glistening foliage to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> -the starting lights in a far-off apartment house, -which thrust its massive top, fortress-like, and, -with proportions exaggerated by the lowering -scud, up into the air. Do what she would, her -mind recurred, as though from some baleful -necessity, to the details of the long train-ride. -The never-ending clack of the wheels was in her -ears. She clenched her hands as the landscape -resolved itself into the dim station at Warne, and -she saw again the grimy brakemen carrying -something by covered with a dirty canvas.</p> - -<p>She shut her eyes to drag them away from the -window. How could she ever stand it! It had -been a mistake—a horrible, ghastly mistake! She -had turned cold and sick when they had carried -it past the car window. How could she ever bear -to see things like that? Lois did. Lois liked it! -So did all of them. But they were different. -There must be something hideously wrong about -her—it was part of her unwomanliness—part of -her guilty lack. The others saw the quivering -soul beneath the sick flesh; she could never see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> -within the bodily tenement. She was handcuffed -to her lower side. She remembered the story of -the criminal, chained by wrist and ankle to a comrade; -how he woke one day to find the other -dead—<i>dead</i>—and himself condemned to drag -about with him, day and night, that horrible, inert -thing. She, Margaret Langdon, was like this -man. She must drag through life this corpse of -a dead spirituality, this finer comrade soul of -hers which had somehow died! Her life must -be one long hypocrisy—one unending deceit. She -was even there under false pretences. They -would not want her if they knew.</p> - -<p>She turned toward the fireplace. Over it hung -a sepia print of the Madonna of the Garden. The -glow touched the rounded chin and chubby knees -of the little St. John with a soft flesh-tint, and -left in shadow the quaint incongruity of the -distant church-spire. Margaret’s whole spirit -yearned toward its placid purity. She had had -the same print hung in her bedroom at home, and -it had looked down upon her when she prayed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> -She gazed at it now with eyes of wretchedness, -filmed with tears. Her throat ached acutely with -a repressed desire to sob. She fancied that the -downcast lids lifted and that the luminous, wide -eyes followed her wonderingly, reproachfully.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Lois came in smiling. “She is in now,” she -said, “and we will go down.”</p> - -<p>Margaret exerted herself and tried to chat -bravely as they went along the corridor, and entered -the cool silence of the room where Lois’s -friend waited to meet her. There was a restfulness -in Mrs. Goodno’s neat attire, and a dignity -about her clear profile, full, womanly throat and -strong, capable wrists, that seemed to be an inseparable -part of her atmosphere. Her firm and -unringed hands held Margaret’s with a suggestion -of tried strength and assured poise that bore -comfort. Her eyes were deep gray, smiling less -with humor, one felt, than with a constant inward -reflection of welcome thoughts. Her hair -was a dull, toneless black, carried back under her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> -lace cap in a single straight sweep that left the -hollows of her neck in deep shadow.</p> - -<p>“And you are Miss Langdon?” she said. “Lois -has told me so much about you. Do sit down. -Tea will be here directly, and I want to give you -some, for I know you have had a long, dreary -ride.”</p> - -<p>She busied herself renewing the grate fire, -while Margaret watched her with straying eyes.</p> - -<p>“You know,” she said, returning, “we people -who spend our lives taking care of broken human -bodies have to be strong ourselves. You are -strong; I see that, though your face has tired -lines in it now. But we must be more than that—our -minds must be healthy. We can’t afford to -be morbid. We have to have cheerful hearts. -We must see the beauty of the great pattern that -depends on these soiled and tangled threads we -keep straightening out here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Margaret, “do you think we have to -be happy to do any good in the world? How can -we be happy unless we work? And if we start<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> -miserable——” she stopped, with an acute sense -of wretchedness.</p> - -<p>“No, not happy necessarily. There are things -in some of our lives which make that impossible; -but we can be cheerful. Cheerfulness depends -not on our past acts, but on our wholesome view -of life, and we get this by learning to understand -it and to understand ourselves.”</p> - -<p>“But, do you think,” questioned Margaret, -“do you think we always do in the end?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; I believe we do. It’s unfailing. I -proved it to myself, for I began life by being a -very unnatural girl, and a very unhappy one. I -misunderstood my own emotions, as all young -girls do. I didn’t know how to treat myself. I -didn’t even know I was sick. I had been brought -up in New England, and I tortured myself with -religion. It wasn’t the wickedness of the world -that troubled me; I expected too much of myself—we -all do at a certain age. And, because I -found weakness where I hadn’t suspected it, I -thought I was all wrong. You know we New<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> -Englanders have a peculiar aptitude for self-torture, -and I wore my hair-cloth shirt and pressed it -down on the sores. It was the University Settlement -idea that first drew me out of myself. I -went into that and worked at first only for my -own sake; but, after a while, for the work’s sake. -It was only work I wanted, my dear, and contact -with real things. Out of the turmoil and mixture -and pain I got my first real satisfaction. In its -misery and want and degradation I learned that -an isolated grief is always selfish. I learned the -part that our human bodies play in life. I began -to see a meaning in the plan and to understand -the part in it of what I had thought the lower -things in us. Then I got into the hospital work, -and you will soon see what that is. It has shown -me humanity. It has taught me the nobility of -the human side of us. It makes me broader to -understand and quicker to feel; and it isn’t depressing. -There is a great deal in it that is -sunny. I hope you will like it. But we are not -all made in the same mould, and we regard your<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span> -coming, of course, merely as an experiment. So, -if you feel at any time that it is not for you, come -to me and tell me. Come to me any time and talk -with me.</p> - -<p>“Now you have finished your tea, and I must -go to the children’s ward. I have put you with -Lois till the strangeness of it wears off, and you -can have a separate room whenever you like.”</p> - -<p>Leaning forward, she brushed Margaret’s -cheek lightly with her lips and went quickly out -of the room.</p> - -<p>In spite of her misery, a shy feeling of comfort -had come into Margaret’s heart. She rose and -surveyed herself in the mirror over the mantel, -drawing a deep breath and raising her shoulders -as she did so. It was an unconscious trick of -hers.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no!” she said half aloud, “that is the -temptation. I want to think it, and it can’t be -true. I <i>want</i> to! The want in me is bad! How -<i>can</i> it be true?” “The nobility of the human side -of us”—ah, that had come from the calm poise of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> -a wholesome understanding! It was noble—this -human side—but not king. What of this -strange mastery that overflowed her, the actual -ache for the glow of his eyes, the pressure of his -fingers? The mere memory of it was like a live -coal to her cheeks. It burned her. The feel of -his strong hair was in the fibrous touch of her -gown. His mouth, smiling at the corners, warmed -her shoulder. His bodily presence was all about -her; it breathed upon her, and her soul reeled and -shut its eyes like a drunken man!</p> - -<p>Margaret tossed her hands above her head, the -wrists dropping crosswise upon the shearing pillow -of her flame-washed hair. In the mirror she -saw the pale oval of her face in this living setting. -As she gazed, the features warmed and changed; -the eyes became Daunt’s eyes—the mouth, -Daunt’s mouth. It was Daunt’s face, as she had -looked up into it framed in her arms on the sun-brilliant -beach. The wind was all about her, -fresh and odorous, and his kisses were falling -upon her seasalt lips!</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>Still holding her arms raised, she leaned to the -mirror and kissed the glass hungrily. Her breath -sighed the picture dim. The magic of it was -gone, and Margaret, glancing fearfully behind -her, turned and ran breathless to her room, where -she locked the door and threw herself upon the -bed, pressing her face down into the soft pillow -gaspingly, to shut out the vivid passion-laden -odor of bruised roses that seemed to pursue her, -filling all her senses like a far-faint smell of musk.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">XV.</h2></div> - - -<p>Margaret passed along through the light-freshened -ward, following Lois closely, and fighting -desperately the active feeling of nausea which almost -overcame her. All her sensitive nature -cringed in this atmosphere. Through the brightness -and cleanliness of wood and metal, the absolute -whiteness of the stamped bed-linen and the -fresh smell of antiseptics, she had a morbid sense -of the ugliness of disease, of the loathsomeness of -contact with physical decrepitude that is one of -the selfishnesses of the artistic temperament. She -felt the dread, incubus-like, pressing upon her and -sucking from her what force and vitality she had. -A feeling of despair of being able to cope with -this thrusting melancholy beset her and she -fought it off with her strongest strength.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>At intervals, as they passed, was a cot shut off -by screens of white linen, fluted and ironed, as -high as the eyes. These spotless blanks stood -out more awful to Margaret in intimation of hidden -horror than any open physical convulsion. -Behind these screens was more often silence, but -sometimes came forth an indistinct and restless -muttering, and once a sharp, panging groan. A -sick apprehension gripped her, and she felt her -palms growing moist with sweat. She was sickly -sensible of the sweet, pungent smell of carbolic -and ether, sharpened by a spicy odor of balsam-of-Peru. -From the pillows curious eyes peered -at her, set in faces sharp-featured and hectic, or -a shambling figure in loose garments moved, bent -and halting, across their path. She caught a -sidewise view, through a swing door, of a tiled -operating-room, with a glittering <i>mêlée</i> of polished -instruments. Here and there she thought -the lapping folds of bandages moved, showing -blue glimpses of gaping cuts and festering tissue.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> -It seemed as if the long rows of white coverlids -and iron bed-bars would go on eternally.</p> - -<p>As they came to the extreme end of the room, -Margaret suddenly stopped, gripping Lois’s arm -with vise-close fingers. “What is that?” she -whispered.</p> - -<p>“What is what?”</p> - -<p>She stood listening, her neck bent sideways, -and a flush of excitement rising on her cheeks. -“Didn’t you hear him call me?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Hear him? Hear who?” said Lois.</p> - -<p>But she did not answer. “Take me away; oh, -take me away!” she said weakly. “I want to go -back to the room. I—I can’t tell you what I -thought I heard. It would sound such nonsense. -I must have imagined it. Oh, of course I imagined -it! Oh, Lois, I don’t believe I will ever be -any good here, do you?”</p> - -<p>Lois drew her into the outside corridor and up -the hall. “I do believe you are sick yourself!” -she said. “Why, you have quite a fever. There<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> -is something troubling you, dear, I’m sure. Can’t -you tell me about it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no! Indeed there is nothing!” cried -Margaret. “Lois, I want to see <i>all</i> the patients—the -worst ones. Promise me you’ll take me with -you when you go around to-night. Indeed, indeed, -I must! You <i>must</i> let me! I will be -just as quiet! You will see! You think it -wouldn’t be best—that I’m too fanciful and sensitive -yet—but indeed, it isn’t that. Maybe it’s -because I only look on from a distance. I don’t -touch it, actually. I’m only a spectator. If I -could go quite close, or do something to help -with my hands, maybe they would seem more like -people, and the sickness of it would leave me. -Do, dear, say I may to-night!”</p> - -<p>They had reached the room now, and Lois -gently forced Margaret upon the lounge. “Very -well,” she said, “I will. I’m going through at -nine o’clock. I’m not afraid of your sensitiveness. -It’s the sensitive ones who make the best nurses,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> -Dr. Goodno says. They can <i>feel</i> their diagnosis. -But you must lie down till I can come for you.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Left alone, Margaret pressed her head into the -cushions and tried to think. She could not shake -off the real impression of that cry. “Ardee! -Ardee!” It had come to her with such suddenness -that every nerve had jumped and jerked. -Could she have dreamed it? Was the sound of -that old intimate name of hers, breathed in that -peculiar voice, only a trick of the imagination? -Surely it must have been! Her nerves were -overwrought and frayed. She was hysterical. -It was only the muttering of some fever patient! -And yet, she had felt that she must see. An indefinable -impulse had urged her to beg Lois to -take her with her. And now the same horror -would seize her again, the same sickening repulsion, -and she would have the same fight over.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>When Lois came for her, Margaret prepared -herself quickly and they passed down. At the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> -door of the surgical ward they met the house surgeon, -who nodded to Margaret at Lois’s introduction. -“Just going in to see Faulkner’s trephine -case,” he said. “It’s a funny sort.”</p> - -<p>“Is he coming through all right?” asked Lois. -“That’s the one that was brought in on your train -the other night, Margaret,” she added.</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid it’s going to be the very devil. He -took a nasty temperature this afternoon, and the -nurse got worried and called me up. I found we -had a good old-fashioned case of sepsis—wound -full of pus and all that. What makes it bad is -that he has hemiplegia. The whole left side -seems to be paralyzed. The operation didn’t relieve -the brain pressure, and with his temperature -where it is now, we’ll have to simply take care of -that and let any further examination go. I’ve -just telephoned to Faulkner. It won’t be a satisfactory -case, anyway. There is possibly some -deeper brain injury in the motor area, and if we -beat the poison out, he stands to turn out a helpless -cripple. Some people are never satisfied,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> -he continued, irritably. “When they start out to -break themselves up, they have to do it in some -confounded combination that’s the very devil to -patch up. Coming in?”</p> - -<p>He held the door open, and they followed him -quickly to a nest of screens at the upper end of -the ward, passing in with him.</p> - -<p>Margaret forced her unwilling eyes to regard -the patient as the doctor laid a finger upon his -pulse, attentively examined the temperature chart, -and departed. He lay with his left side toward -them. The head was partly shaven, hideous with -bandages, and in an ice-pack. The side-face was -drawn, distorted and expressionless. His left -hand lay quiet, but the fingers of the right picked -and tumbled and drummed on the coverlid unceasingly. -He was muttering to himself in peculiar, -excitable monotone. On a sudden his voice -rose to audible pitch:</p> - -<p>“Now, then! you’ll come. Don’t say you won’t! -Why—you can’t help it! You <i>will</i>! Do you -hear? * * * * Take the straight pike to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> -crossroads, and then two miles further on. The -Drennen place—yes, I know!”</p> - -<p>At the tone Margaret started in uncontrollable -excitement. An inarticulate cry broke from her. -She ran to the foot of the bed, and, her fingers -straining on the bars, gazed with fearful questioning -into the features of the sick man. As she -gazed, his head rolled feebly on the pillow, displaying -the right side of the face. Then a low, -terrible, choking, sobbing cry rose to her lips—a -cry of pain, of remonstrance, of desolation. -“Why, it’s—it’s my—my—it’s Richard Daunt!”</p> - -<p>Lois reached her in a single step and held her, -trembling. But after that one bitter sob she was -absolutely silent. She hardly breathed; all her -soul seemed to be looking out of her deep eyes. -The uncouth mumbling went on, uncertain but -incessant.</p> - -<p>“* * Drennen place. That’s where she is. I’ll -find her! Let me go! Quick, take this off my -head! I tell you, I’ve <i>got</i> to go! * * * Oh, my -dear, don’t you want to see me? You look like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> -an autumn leaf in that scarlet cloak. Come closer -to me. Your hair is like flame and you’re pale—pale—pale! -Look at me! * * * How dare you -treat me this way? How dare you! You knew -I’d come to you—you knew I couldn’t help it. -Some one told me you didn’t want me to come. -* * * It was a letter, wasn’t it? Some one -wrote me a letter. But it was a lie!”</p> - -<p>Lois readjusted the ice-pack, and the voice died -down into broken mutterings. Then he began -again:</p> - -<p>“Where’s Richard Daunt? You’ve got to make -her understand! You’ve got to, and you can’t. -You’ve failed. She used to love you, and now -she’s gone away and left you. She won’t come -back! You can go to the devil! * * * Ardee! -See how your hair shines against the old cross! -Pray for her soul! Pray—for—her—soul! * * -Ardee!”</p> - -<p>Margaret bowed her face on her hands, still -clasping the bed-rail. Great, clear tears welled -up in her eyes and splashed upon the coverlid.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> -She saw, as if through a fleering maze of windy -rain-sheets, the dull, round, staring eyes, the yellow -skin, the restless fingers and unlovely lips. -Then she stood upright, swaying back and putting -both hands to her temples as though something -tense had snapped in her brain.</p> - -<p>A pained wonder was in the look she turned on -Lois—something the look of a furred wood-animal -caught by the thudding twinge of a bullet. -The next moment she threw herself softly on her -knees by the cot, stretching her arms across the -straightened figure, pressing her lips to the -rounded outline of the knees, and between these -kisses, lifting her face, swollen with sobless crying, -to gaze at the rolling, unrecognizing features -beside her. Agony was in the puffed hollows -beneath her eyes, and her lips were drawn -with the terrible yearning of a mother for her -ailing child.</p> - -<p>Lois raised her forcefully, yet feeling a strange -powerlessness, and drew her away, with a finger -on her lip and a warning glance beyond the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> -screens, and Margaret followed her with the -tranced gaze of a sleep-walker. There was no -repugnance or distrust in it now, or fleshly horror -of sickness.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>In her room again, she stood before the window, -her mind reaching out for the new sweetness -that had dropped around her. All that she -had thought strongest in her old love had shrunk -to pitiful detail. Between her young, lithe body -and the broken and ravaged wreck she had seen, -there could then be no bond of bounding blood -and throbbing flesh; but love, masterful, undismayed, -had cried for its own. Something was -dissolving within her heart—something breaking -down and away of its own weight. She felt -the fight finished. It had not been fought out, -but the combatants who had gripped throat in -the darkness had started back in the new dawn, -to behold themselves brothers. There was a primal -directness in the blow that had thrust her -back—somewhere—back from all self-questionings<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> -and the torture of mental misunderstanding, -upon herself. It was an appeal to Cæsar. Beneath -the decree, the rigidity of belief that had -lain back of her determination turned suddenly -flexible. She did not try to reason—she felt. -But this feeling was ultimate, final. She knew -that she could never doubt herself again.</p> - -<p>The green glints from the grass-plots on the -tree-lined street and the sun on the gray asphalt -filled her with a warm tenderness. Every bird -in all the world was piping full-throated; every -spray on every bush was hung with lush blossoms -and drenched with fragrance. The swell of filling -lungs and tumultuous blood—the ecstasy of -breathing had returned to her. The joy-bitter -gladness of the heart and the world, the enfolding -arms of the unforgot, clasped her round. It -was for her the Soul’s renaissance. The Great -Illumination had come!</p> - -<p>As Lois gazed at her, mystified, she turned, -with both hands pressed against her breast, and -laughed.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">XVI.</h2></div> - - -<p>Closing the door, Margaret opened her trunk -and from the very bottom produced a slender -bunch of letters. She lit the small metal lamp -and placed it on the wicker chair, kneeling beside -it with an unreasoning sense that there was a -fitness in the posture. Her fingers trembled as -she touched the black ribbon which held the letters, -and she stayed herself, swaying against a -chair, as she unknotted it. There were a few -folded sheets of paper—pencilled notes left for -her—a telegram or two, and four letters. Before -she read the first letter, she laid it against her -face, lovingly, as though it were a sentient thing. -She read them one by one very slowly, sometimes -smiling faintly with a childish trembling of -the lips—smiles that were followed quickly by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> -tears which gathered in her great eyes and rolled -down her cheeks. When she had finished reading -the last one, she made a little pile of them. Then, -taking from her trunk writing paper, ink and pen, -she laid them upon the floor beside the pile of letters -and stretched herself full length upon the -heavy rug. As she lay leaning upon her elbows, -with eyes gazing straight before her, she looked -like some desolate, wind-broken reed over which -the storm had passed. She wrote slowly, with -careful fingers, forming her letters with almost -laborious precision, like a little child who writes -for a special and fond eye:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>“My Beloved: Please forgive me. Please try -to forget how cruel I was and think kindly of me. -I have been so wretched. All through the slow -days since I went away, I have longed so for you. -All the many dark nights I have dreamed of you -and cried for you. If you could only know now -while you are suffering so. If you could only -know how I longed for you all that time, I would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span> -not suffer so now. I want so much to tell you. -I want to tell you that I love you every way and -all ways. I loved you this way all the time, only -I didn’t know it, and I wanted to love you the -way I know I do now. I must have been mad, I -think. I was so selfish and so cruel, and I thought -I was trying to be so good. I could die when I -think that it was I who brought all this suffering -upon you. To think that you might have -been killed and that I might never have been able -to tell you! Richard, I have learned what love -is. Do other women ever have to learn it as -hardly, I wonder?</p> - -<p>“Do you know, it was not until to-day that I -knew you were here—that you were hurt? And -yet we came here on the same train together. If -God had let me know it then, I think I should -have died on that long, terrible journey. You -did not know what you were saying, and I heard -you call ‘Ardee! Ardee!’ just as you used to at -the beach. That cry reached out of the dark and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> -took hold of my heart as though it were an invisible -hand drawing me to you.</p> - -<p>“And I had been running away from you when -I came—running away from you and myself. I -knew you meant to stay at Warne and see me -again. And I knew if I saw you again, I could -not struggle any longer—you were so strong. -And you were right, too; I know that now, dear.</p> - -<p>“The last time I met you in the field, my heart -leaped to tell you ‘yes.’ I was so hungry—hungry—hungry -for you. And I was afraid of my -own self. I distrusted my own heart, but it was -only because I wanted to love you with my soul—with -the other side of me—the side that I did not -know, that I could not feel sure you filled. Oh, -you must have thought me unnatural, abnormal, -hateful. Dear, such doubts come to women, and -they are terrible things. There is more of the -elemental in men. The finer—the further passion -of love they know, when women fail to -grasp it. We have to learn it—it is one of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> -lessons which men teach us. When my heart -was so full of doubt, I made up my mind to crucify -my bodily sensibilities. It seemed to me -that I must let my soul come uppermost.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you remember how I never could bear -to look at your collie that was sick, and how terribly -ill I got when I tried to tie up your hand -the day you cut it? All through my life, I have -never been able to look on suffering or pain. I -always used to avoid it or shirk it. When I got -to thinking, at Warne, of my own soul, it seemed -to me that I had been unwomanly and selfish, -cruelly, heartlessly selfish, and that I had dwarfed -that soul that I must make grow again.</p> - -<p>“So I came down here.</p> - -<p>“All along I have had such a horror of this -place. I could not overcome it. Every hour was -full of misery.</p> - -<p>“To-day I went through the wards and I found -you.</p> - -<p>“Dearest, I am so happy and I am so miserable—miserable -because I have found you suffering.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> -Every moment is a long agony to me. And -happy because I have found myself. My soul -and I are friends again. Some wonderful miracle -was worked for me to-day, and it is so brilliant, -so wonderful, that it has left no room in my -mind for anything else.</p> - -<p>“It was not the old familiar face that I saw -against the pillows to-night. It was not the old -dear voice that called to me. It was not the old -Daunt. The wavy hair is gone, and there is no -color in your cheeks. But, dear, when I saw -your poor face all drawn and your lips all cracked -with fever, my heart came up in my throat so that -I could not breathe. I wanted to kiss your face, -your hands. I wanted to kiss even the bandages -that were around your head. I wanted to put -my arms around you. I felt strong enough to -keep anything from you—even death. All in a -moment it seemed to me that I was your mother, -and you were my little child who was sick. And -yet so much more so—infinitely much more than -that. It came to me then like a flash, how wrong<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>—wickedly -wrong I had been. Everything disappeared -but you and me. It was not your body -that I loved. It was not the body that that -broken thing had been that I loved, but it was -you—<i>you</i>, the inner something for whose sake I -had loved the Richard Daunt that I knew.</p> - -<p>“You could not speak to me. You did not know -that I was there. You could not plead with me, -but my own self pleaded. You’ll never have to -beg me to stay or go with you again. You need -me now—only I know how much. You cannot -even know that I am near you, that I am talking -to you, that I am telling you all about it. I know -that you will never see this letter, and yet somehow -it eases my heart a little to write it. I have -read over all the letters that you have sent me, -and they are such brave, such true letters. I -understand them now. They have been read and -cried over a great many times since you wrote -them.</p> - -<p>“I am waiting now every day, every hour when -I can tell you all this with my own lips, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> -when your dear eyes will open again and smile up -into mine with the old boyish smile—and when -you will put your arms around my neck and tell -me that you know all about it, and that you forgive -me.”</p></blockquote> - -<p>Her tears had been dropping fast upon the -page, and she stopped from time to time to wipe -them with the draping meshes of her loose, rust-colored -hair. She did not even turn as she heard -a hand at the door.</p> - -<p>“Why, Margaret!” said Lois, “it is two o’clock -in the morning, and I have just finished my last -round. Come, child, you must go to bed at once. -I see that I have got to be a stern chaperon. -What! writing?”</p> - -<p>“It is a letter,” said Margaret. “I have just -finished it.” She lifted the tongs and poked the -fire-logs until there was a crackling blaze, then -she gathered up the loose ink-stained sheets carefully, -and, leaning forward, laid them in a square -white heap upon the red embers. The flame -sprang up and around them, reaching for them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> -voraciously. And Lois, seeing the action, but -making no comment, came and sat down on the -rug beside Margaret, and wistfully and tenderly -drew the brown, bowed head into her sisterly -arms.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">XVII.</h2></div> - - -<p>“Lois”—Mrs. Goodno, standing in the doorway, -drew her favorite close beside her—“look -at the picture coming down the hall! Isn’t she -beautiful?” There was a spontaneous and genuine -admiration in her tone as she spoke.</p> - -<p>A something indefinable, an atmosphere of -loveliness, seemed to breathe from Margaret’s -every motion as she came toward them. Her -cheeks had a delicate flush, her glance was -bright and roving, and her perfect lips were -tremulous. Her look had a new mystery in it—a -brooding tenderness, like the look of a young -mother.</p> - -<p>“All through the nurses’ lecture this morning,” -said Lois, “I noticed her. When she smiled it -made one want to smile, too!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>As Margaret reached them and greeted Mrs. -Goodno, Lois joined her, and the two girls walked -down the hall together to their room.</p> - -<p>“Now,” said Lois, as she took a text-book -from the drab-backed row on the low corner -shelf, and assumed a judicial demeanor, “I’m -morally certain that you haven’t studied your -Weeks-Shaw this morning, and I’m going to quiz -you.”</p> - -<p>Margaret broke into a laugh. “Try it,” she -said gayly. “You’re going to ask me to define -health, and to show the difference between objective -and subjective symptoms, and tell you what -is a mulberry-tongue. Health is a perfect circulation -of pure blood in a sound organism. How -is that?”</p> - -<p>“Good!” Lois, sitting down by the window, -was laughing, too. “When the doctor quizzes -you, you may not know it so well! Suppose you -explain to me the theory of counter-irritants.”</p> - -<p>Margaret swooped down upon her, and kneeling -by her chair, put both hands over the page,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> -looking up into her face. “Don’t!” she said. -“What do I care for it all to-day! Oh, Lois! -Lois!” she whispered in the hushed voice of a -child about to tell a dear secret, “I am so happy! -I am so happy that I can’t tell it! To think that -I can watch him and nurse him, and take his temperature! -I can help cure him and see him get -better and better every day. When he talks, he -pronounces queerly and his words get all jumbled -up, and his sentences have no ends to them, but -I love to hear it—I know what they are trying to -say! He is so weak that I feel as if I were his -mother. I know you’ve told Mrs. Goodno; -haven’t you, dear? Somehow I knew it just now -when she smiled at us! I don’t care if you did—not -a bit—if she will only let me stay by him.”</p> - -<p>Lois patted the bronzing gloss of the uplifted -head. “I did tell her,” she said. “I thought I -ought to—but she understands. Never fear -about that.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder what makes me so happy! I love -all the world, Lois! Did you ever feel that way?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>The light wing of a shadow brushed the face -above her, and deep in its eyes darkled a something -hidden there that was almost envy.</p> - -<p>The voice went running on: “Suppose he -should open his eyes suddenly to-night—conscious! -Do you know what I would do? I -would slip off this apron all in a minute, so he -should see me and know me first of all. I have -my hair the way he likes it. I wish I could do -more for him! Love is service. I want to tire -myself out doing things to help him. Why, only -think! It was my fault he was hurt. I sent him -away when it was breaking my heart to do it.”</p> - -<p>“If he should know you to-day, dear,” Lois -said, her face flashing into a smile, “it ought to -help him get well. There is joy bubbling out all -over you!”</p> - -<p>“I’m so glad he’s not conscious now, for when -he isn’t he doesn’t suffer. Sometimes last night -he seemed to, and then I ached all over to suffer -for him. I could laugh out loud through the -pain, to think that I was bearing it for him! Oh,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> -Lois, I haven’t understood. I see now what -you love in this life here. It isn’t only bodies -that you are curing; it’s souls—that you’re making -sound houses for.”</p> - -<p>Drawing Lois’s arm through hers, Margaret -pointed to where the huge entrance showed, from -the deep window. “Do you know, the first day -we came in there together, I was the unhappiest -girl in the world. It seemed as though I was -being dragged into some dreadful black cave, -where there was no sun, no flowers, nothing but -ghastly sights and people that were dying! The -first day I went with you through the wards I -hated it. I wanted to shut my eyes and run away -as far as I could from it!”</p> - -<p>“I know that; I saw it.”</p> - -<p>“But now that is all changed. I never shall -see a body suffer again without wanting to put -my hands on it and soothe it. Life is so much -sweeter and deeper than I knew! It’s hard to be -quiet. I’m walking to music. I must go around -all the time singing. It seems wicked of me to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> -be so happy when I know that it will be days and -days yet before he can even sit up and let me read -to him. But I can’t help it. I was so wretched -all the time before, that the joy now seems to be a -part of me. It seems to be his joy, too. He -would be glad if he could know that, in spite of -all I thought and everything I said, I love him -now as he wanted me to, and that nothing ever -can come between us again! Isn’t it time to go -in yet? I can hardly wait for the hour!”</p> - -<p>Lois looked at her watch. “It’s near enough,” -she said. “Come. Dr. Faulkner is somewhere in -the ward now, and I must get instructions.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Daunt lay perfectly quiet, his restless hand still. -An orderly was changing the phials upon the -glass-topped table and nodded to them.</p> - -<p>Lois darted a quick glance at the face on the -pillow, and her own changed. A stealthy fear -crept over her. Margaret’s head was turned -away toward the cot. How should she tell her? -How let her know that subtle change of the last<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> -few hours that her own trained eye noted? How -let out for her the strenuous agony that waited -in that room? The pitiful unconsciousness of -evil in the graceful posture went through her -with a start of anguish.</p> - -<p>The soft footfall of the visiting surgeon drew -near, and with swift prescience she moved close -to Margaret. He bent over the figure in rapid -professional inquiry and consulted the chart, nodding -his head as he tabulated his observations in -a running, semi-audible comment.</p> - -<p>“H—m! well-developed septic fever. Delirium -comes on at night, you say, nurse. Eh? H—m! -Pulse very rapid and stringy—hurried and shallow -breathing—eyes dull, with inequality of -pupils. H—m! Face flushed—lips blue—extremities -cold. Lips and teeth covered with sordes—typical -case. H—m! Complete lethargy—clammy -sweat—face assuming a hippocratic type. -Temperature sub-normal. H—m! Yes. Nurse, -please preserve all notes of this case. It’s interesting. -Very. Like to see it in the ‘Record.’”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>“What are the probabilities, doctor?” It was -the sentence. Lois’s lips were trembling, and she -put a hand on Margaret’s arm.</p> - -<p>“Probabilities? H—m! Give him about twelve -hours and that’s generous. Never any hope in a -case of this kind. Why, the man’s dying now. -Look at his face.”</p> - -<p>A piteous, chalky whiteness swept like a wave -over Margaret’s cheeks, but she had made no -sound. When the doctor was quite gone, she -swerved a little on her feet, as though her limbs -had weakened, and her lips opened and shut -voicelessly, as if whispering to herself. Lois -dreaded a cry, but there was none; she only shut -her eyes, and covered her poor face, gone suddenly -pinched and pallid, with her two hands.</p> - -<p>“Wait, Margaret.” Lois held out a hand -whose professional coolness was touched with an -unwonted tremor. “Wait a moment, dear.” She -ran to the hall to see that no one was in sight. -Then running back and putting her arm around -Margaret’s shoulders, she led her, blind and unresisting, -to the stair.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">XVIII.</h2></div> - - -<p>The house surgeon stretched his long legs -lazily in a corner of the office and looked at the -hospital superintendent through the purplish -haze from his cigar. “I wonder, Goodno,” he -said, “that you have time to get interested in any -one case among so many. I’d like to see the one -you speak of pull through; it’s a rather unusual -case, and a trephine always absorbs me.”</p> - -<p>Dr. Goodno lighted a companion cigar. “My -interest in him isn’t wholly professional,” he -answered slowly. “It’s personal. In the first -place, he isn’t an Italian stevedore or a Pole peddler -from Baxter street. He is a man of a great -deal of promise. He has published a book or -two, I believe. And in the second place, my wife -is very much concerned.”</p> - -<p>“Always seems to be the trouble, doesn’t it?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> -Enter a romance!” Dr. Irwin waved his hand -widely.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it’s a romance. To tell the truth, Irwin, -Mrs. Goodno knows of the young woman, and I -can’t tell you how anxious she is about him. -There’s nothing sadder to me than a case like -that.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” the other said, “that’s because you’re a -married man. The rest of us haven’t time to -grow sympathetic. I should say that the particular -young woman would be a great deal better -off, judging from present indications, if he -<i>did</i> die.”</p> - -<p>“Why?”</p> - -<p>“Because, if he should recover from this septic -condition, he’s more than likely to be a stick for -the rest of his life. It’s even chances he never -puts foot to the ground again. Such men are -better dead, and if you gave them their choice, -most of them would prefer it.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t know it was as bad as that. Dr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> -Faulkner’s earlier prognosis was more favorable.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but I don’t like his temperature of the -last two days. He’s got septic symptoms, and -you know how quickly such a course ends. Well, -we’ll soon know, though that’s more consolation -to us than it might be to him, I suppose.” He -drummed with his fingers on the arm of the chair. -“As for the girl,” he continued. “Love? Pshaw! -She’ll get over it. What sensible woman, when -she’s got beyond the mooning age and the foreign -missionary age, wants a cripple for a husband? -If this patient should live in that way, -this girl you speak of would probably get the -silly notion that she wanted to marry him—trust -a woman, especially a young woman, for that! -If she’s beautiful or wealthy, or particularly talented, -it’s all the more likely she would insist on -tying herself up to him and nurse him and feed -him gruel till her hair was gray. And what -would she get out of it?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>“There might be worse lives than that.” Dr. -Goodno spoke reflectively.</p> - -<p>“For her, I presume you mean?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. Woman’s love is less of a physical affinity -and more a consciousness of spiritual attraction -than man’s.”</p> - -<p>“Teach your women that. It’s not without -its merits as a working doctrine. The time a -woman isn’t thinking about servants or babies -she generally spends thinking about her soul. -The word soul to her is as fascinating as a canary -to an Angora cat. She takes so much stock in -heaven only because she’s been told it isn’t material. -Your material philosophies were all invented -and patented by men; it’s the women who -keep your spiritual religions running.”</p> - -<p>“How would <i>you</i> have it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s all right as far as heaven goes! Let -them believe anything they want to. But when -you bring the all-soul idea down into every-day -life, it’s mawkish. When you go about preaching -that love is a spiritual ‘affinity,’ for instance.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>“Well?”</p> - -<p>“You may believe it, understand. But you -gloss over the other side. The general opinion -is that ‘bodily’ isn’t a nice word to use when we -discuss love. You and I, as physicians, see every -day the results of this dislike to recognize the -material side in what has been called the ‘young -person.’ Women are taught from childhood to -regard the immensely human and emotional sensibilities -as linked to sin. The sex-stirring in -them, they are led to imagine evil and a wrong -to possess. They are taught instinctively to condemn -rather than to respect the growth and indications -of their own natures. The profound -attraction of one sex to the other which marks the -purest and most ennobling passion—the trembling -delight in the merest touch or caress—the -bodily thrill at the passing presence or footfall of -the one beloved—these they come to believe a -shame to feel and a death to confess. It is the -teaching that makes for the morbid. A great -deal of mental suffering which leaves its mark<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span> -upon the growing woman might be avoided if -men and women were more honest with themselves. -A soulless woman is just as much use in -the world as a bodiless one—or a man either, for -that matter.”</p> - -<p>Dr. Goodno regarded him musingly. “Granted -there is a good deal of truth in what you say,” he -said. “When I spoke of woman’s love as more -of a spiritual and less of a material affinity than -man’s, I meant that it does not require so much -from the senses to feed upon. Sex has a psychology, -and it is a fact which has been universally -noted that all that concerns the mental aspect -of sex is exhibited in greater proportionate -force by women. Does not this seem to imply -that love to a woman is more of a mental element -and less of a physical?”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense! More of a mental, but only so -because more of a physical, too. All love’s mental -delights come originally from the physical -side. How many women do you see falling in -love with twisted faces and crooked joints? A<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> -hand stands for a hand-clasp; a face for a kiss! -Love becomes a ‘spiritual’ passion only after it -has blossomed on physical expression. Not before.”</p> - -<p>The other shook his head doubtfully.</p> - -<p>“If your view were the correct one,” pursued -Irwin, “women, in all their habitual acts of fascination -(which are Nature’s precursors of love) -would strive more to touch the mental, the spiritual -side of men. But they don’t. They apply -their own self-learned reasoning to the opposite -sex. They decorate themselves for man with the -feathers of male birds (you’ll find that in your -Darwin), which Nature gave the male birds to -charm the females. They strike at his senses, -and they hit his mental side, when he has any, -through them.”</p> - -<p>“You’re a sad misogynist, Irwin!” Dr. Goodno -was smiling, but there was a sub-note of earnestness -beneath the lightness of his tone. “And you -forget that women have an imaginative and ideal -side which is superior to man’s. They can create<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> -the mental, possibly, where men are most dependent -upon sense-impression. Love involves -more of the soul in woman, Irwin.”</p> - -<p>The house surgeon unwound his legs. “Or -less,” he said tersely. “Havelock Ellis says a good -thing. He says that while a man may be said to -live on a plane, a woman is more apt to live on -the upward or downward slope of a curve. She -is always going up or coming down. That’s -why a woman, when an artificial civilization -hasn’t stepped in to forbid it, is forever talking -about her health. And, spiritually, as well as -physically, she is just as apt to be coming down -as going up. Her proportion is wrong. Your -bad woman disrespects her soul; your good -woman disrespects her body. The wholesome -woman disrespects neither and respects both. But -very few young women are wholesome nowadays. -Their training has been against it! The best -way for a woman to treat her soul is to realize -that her soul and body belong together, and have -to live together the rest of her natural life. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span> -needn’t forget this just because she happens to -fall in love! No woman can marry a man whom -accident has robbed of his physical side and not -wrong herself. She shuts off the avenues of her -senses. There is no thrill of ear or hand—no -comeliness for her eye to dwell upon, and her -spiritual love, so beautiful to begin with, starves -itself slowly to death!”</p> - -<p>“Very good on general principles,” said Dr. -Goodno. “That’s the trouble. It’s easy enough -to sermonize in the pulpit, or the clinic either, but -when we come to concrete examples, it’s difficult. -The particular instance is troublesome. Now, in -the case of this man in the surgical ward, if he -recovered at all, but remained a hopeless cripple, -you would pack him off into a rayless solitude -for the rest of his life, and tell the girl who loves -him to go and love somebody else. You wouldn’t -leave it to her—even if he was willing.”</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t <i>you</i>?”</p> - -<p>“No! I would be afraid to arrogate to myself -the judgment upon two human souls. There are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span> -times when what we call consistency vanishes and -something greater and more noble stands up to -make it ashamed. I’ll tell you now, Irwin, if the -one woman in the world to me—the woman I -loved—if my wife—had been brought where the -case we’ve been speaking of promises to be—if -there were nothing but her eyes left and the -something that is back of them—I tell you, I’d -have married her! Yes, and I’d have thanked -God for it!”</p> - -<p>His companion tossed the dead butt of his -cigar into the grate and rose to go to the ward. -“Goodno,” he said, and his voice was unsteady, -“I believe it! You would; and I wish to the -Lord I knew what that meant!”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The superintendent sat long thinking. He -was still pondering when his wife entered the -room. “I’ve just been talking with Irwin,” he -said, “about the last trephine case—the one you -spoke to me of. He doesn’t seem too hopeful, -I’m sorry to say.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span>She did not answer.</p> - -<p>“By the way,” he continued, “I saw your new -nurse protégée to-day. Langdon, I believe her -name is. She is a lovely girl; I think I never -saw a brighter, sweeter face in my life.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Goodno had gone to the window and -stood looking out. “Doctor,” she said, “I’ve bad -news. Dr. Faulkner has just seen Mr. Daunt, -and—he is dying.”</p> - -<p>Something in her voice caught him. He rose -and came beside her, and saw that her eyes were -full of tears. He drew her head to his shoulder -and smoothed her hair gently. He could feel her -hands quiver against his arm. His thoughts fled -far away—somewhere—where the one for whose -sorrow she cried must be uncomforted. “Poor -girl! Poor girl!” he said.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">XIX.</h2></div> - - -<p>As they entered the room, Lois turned the key -in its lock and bent a long, penetrating gaze on -Margaret.</p> - -<p>She lay huddled against the welter of bedclothes, -silent, inert, pearl-pale spots on her -cheeks like gray-white smothers of foam over -fretting rocks. Her eyes were closed and her -breath came chokingly, like a child’s after a -draught of strong medicine. Suddenly, as Lois -stood pondering, she kneeled upright on the bed, -holding her arms out before her.</p> - -<p>“Oh, God!” she cried, “don’t let him die! -Please don’t! He can’t—he can’t die! Why, -he’s Richard—Richard Daunt. It’s only an accident. -He can’t die that way. God—God!”</p> - -<p>“Hush, dear! Oh, dear! What can I say?” -cried Lois.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>Margaret slipped to the floor, dragging the -covers with her, and burying her face in the fleecy -cuddle. There she writhed like some trodden -thing.</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear God!” she sobbed, “just when I -knew. He can’t die now! It’s just to punish -me; I’ve been wicked, but I didn’t mean to be. -I only wanted his good! If he had only died before -I knew it! Only let him live till I can tell -him, God. I’m not a wicked woman—you know -how I tried. A wicked woman wouldn’t have -tried. Oh, God, he doesn’t even know! I can’t -tell him. I’ve suffered already. If he died, I -couldn’t feel worse than I have all this time. Let -me think he’s going to die, but don’t let him. -<i>Don’t let him!</i> I want him so! It isn’t for that -that I want him! I know now. I thought it -was the other. But I wasn’t so wicked as that. -I’ve been selfish. I’ve been thinking I was good -to keep him away, but I wasn’t. I was cruel. -He loved me the right way. Oh, if I could only -forget how he talked!—and he didn’t know what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> -he was saying. I’ve hated myself ever since. If -he dies, I shall hate myself forever! I don’t deserve -that! I’m not so bad as that! I <i>couldn’t</i> -be. I’m willing to be punished in other ways—in -any other way—but not this, God! I can’t -stand it!</p> - -<p>“I don’t ask for him as he was! I don’t care -how he looks! Give him to me just as he is. -Give him to me crippled and helpless, and let me -care for him all my life. Oh, God, it isn’t so -much that I ask! It’s such a little thing for you -to grant! Why, every day you let some one get -well, some one who isn’t half as much to anybody -as he is to me. If I were asking something I -oughtn’t to—something sinful, it would be different! -But it can’t be bad to want him to get well! -I’ll be better all my life to have him. It isn’t -much—I’ll never ask you anything else as long as -I live! Only let him live—don’t take him away! -I don’t care if he can never walk again, if he can -only know me, and love me still! God, his life is -so precious to me; it’s worth more than all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span> -world. If he died, I would want to die, too. God! -Hasn’t he suffered enough? How can you watch -him—how can you see what he is suffering now -and not let him live? You can if you want to! -There are so many millions and millions of -people, and this is just one of them. Oh, for -Christ’s sake—for Christ’s sake!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Margaret! Margaret!” wailed Lois, falling -beside her, as though physical contact could -soothe her. “Don’t go on like that! Don’t! -Oh, it’s too cruel! You break my heart! Darling, -darling! He isn’t dead yet. Maybe—maybe——” -She stopped then, choking, but pressing -her hands hard on Margaret’s cheeks, on her hair, -on her breast, her limbs, as though to press back -the nerves that she felt throbbed to bursting.</p> - -<p>Margaret struggled to her feet, swaying with -the paroxysm just passed. Her eyes were unwet -and bright, and her teeth were clenched tightly -on her under lip.</p> - -<p>“No, he isn’t dead,” she said slowly, as though -to force conviction on herself. “He isn’t—dead.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> -Doctors are mistaken sometimes, aren’t they?” -she asked dully. “Yes, I know! They are! -Dr. Irwin told me so himself. ‘The prognostications -of surgery can in no case be considered infallible.’ -That’s what he said in the lecture yesterday. -I wrote it down in my note-book. That -means that he may not die. Oh! I’ve got to believe -that. <i>I’ve got to!</i> Can’t you see that I’ve -got to? You don’t believe he will live! I see it -in your face. When the doctor said that just -now, you looked just as he did. He might have -stabbed me just as well. Why! I’d rather die -myself a million times—but it wouldn’t do any -good! It wouldn’t do any good!”</p> - -<p>Margaret moved to the fire and spread out her -hands before the blaze, as though her mind unconsciously -sought relief from strain in an habitual -action. But her chattering teeth showed that -she was unconscious of its warmth.</p> - -<p>She looked up at the countenance of La Belle -Jardinière above the fireplace. The mild gaze -which had once held reproach now seemed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> -bend down full of pitiful tenderness. Her -bright, miserable eyes rested on the placid figure.</p> - -<p>“You don’t know,” she said slowly, “what I -am praying for. If it were a little child—<i>my</i> -little child—that I were asking for, you would -understand. You can only pity me, but you can -never, never know!”</p> - -<p>She turned and walked up and down the floor, -her steps uneven with anguish, her fingers laced -and unlaced in tearless convulsion, and her throat -contracting with soundless sobs.</p> - -<p>Lois watched her, her mind saying over and -over to itself: “If she would only cry! If she -would only cry!” There was something more -terrible than tears in this inarticulate anguish. -At last she went and stood in Margaret’s way, -clinging entreatingly to her. “Do let me help -you, dear! Lie down and let me cover you up -and make you some tea! Do please, dear!” She -stopped, struck by the ashy pallor of her face.</p> - -<p>“No, no, Lois. I can’t stay here! Think! -He may be dying <i>now</i>! I <i>must</i> go to him! Oh,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> -you have got to let me—they can’t forbid me that. -I was going to stay with him to-night, anyway. -You know I was! I can’t let him die! He -<i>shan’t</i>! I’ll fight it off with him. I don’t care -what Dr. Faulkner says; I don’t care what you -think! You mustn’t say no, Lois! Oh, Lois, -darling! I’ll die now, right here, if you don’t.” -She dropped on her knees at Lois’s feet, catching -her hand and kissing it in grovelling entreaty.</p> - -<p>“You know I’ll have to let you, if you ask like -that!” cried Lois. “I’m only thinking of you—and -of him,” she added. “You know if you -should break down——”</p> - -<p>“But I won’t—I won’t!” A gulping hiccough -strained her, and Lois poured out a glass of water -for her hastily, and stood over her while she -swallowed it in choking mouthfuls.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">XX.</h2></div> - - -<p>In the dimmed light Margaret bent above -Daunt’s bed to wipe away the creeping, beady -sweat that lay on the forehead, and laid her fingers -on his wrist. Then she came close to Lois. -She had bitten her lip raw and her neck throbbed -out and in above her close collar.</p> - -<p>“It’s fluttering,” she whispered piteously, “and -he’s so cold! See how pinched and blue his nose -is. Oh, God—Lois!”</p> - -<p>The rustle and stir of the early waking city -soaked in fine-filtered sounds through the window. -Of what use were its multitudinous strivings, -its tangled hopes, its varied suffering? The -unending quiet of softened noises beyond the -spotless, ruffled screens hurt her. She could have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span> -screamed, inarticulately, frantically, to scare away -that dreadful, stolid, lethargic thing that sprawled -in the air. Her nails left little, curved, purpled -dents in her palms that smarted when she unclenched -her fingers. It would be easier to bear -it if he cried out—if he babbled unmeaningness, -or hurled reproaches. Only—that still prostration, -that anxious expression about the lines of -the forehead, that silence, growing into—— No, -no! Not that! Not—death!</p> - -<p>Lois sat aching fiercely at the smouldering -longing in the shadowy depths of the other’s -spaniel-like eyes. The tawny-brown surge of her -hair, swept back from her forehead, stood out -against the white of the blank wall, cameo-like. -She suddenly crouched by Lois’s chair, grasping -at her. “Lois, Lois!” she said, low and with -fearful intensity; “it’s come! Help me to fight -it! Help me!”</p> - -<p>“What has come? What?”</p> - -<p>“Fear! It’s looking at me everywhere. It’s -looking between the screens! I must keep it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> -away. If I give up to it, he’ll die! Press my -hands—that’s good. Look at him! Didn’t he -move then? Wasn’t his face turned more? I’m—cold, -Lois.”</p> - -<p>An icy frost had silvered her soul. Gaunt -arms seemed to stretch from the dimness toward -the bed. Then, with an effort which left her -weak, she thrust back her imaginings, rose, and -sat down by the pillow. Her eyes glanced fearfully -from side to side, then above, as though -questioning from what direction would come this -relentless foe.</p> - -<p>Through her dazed brain rushed, clamorous, -reiterating, a prayer-blent, defiant appeal. She -saw God sitting on a draped throne, but His face -was merciless. He would not help her! Of -what virtue was this all-filling love of hers if it -could not save one little human life? He was -dying—dying—dying! And he <i>must not</i> die! -She remembered a night, far back in her misty -childhood, when she had crept through evening -shadows to see a soul take flight. The Death<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> -Angel then was a kindly friend sent to set free a -shining twin; now it was a ghastly monster, lying -in wait and chuckling in the silences.</p> - -<p>She pressed Daunt’s nerveless hand between -her warm palms and strove to put the whole -force of her being into a great passionate desire—a -desire to send along this human conductivity -the extra current of vitality which she felt throbbing -and pressing in her every vein. It seemed -as though she must give—give of her own bounding -life, to eke out the fading powers of that -dying frame. Again and again she breathed out -her longing, until the very intensity of her will -made her feel dizzy and weak. She would have -opened her veins for him. Like the Roman -daughter, she would have given her breast to his -lips and the warmth from her limbs to aid him.</p> - -<p>Once she started. “You shall! You shall!” -seemed to patter in flying echoes all about her. -It was Daunt’s cry by the fields at Warne, that -had gone leaping from his lips to her heart like -a vibrant, inspiring fire. Did that virile will still<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> -lie living, overlapped with the wing of disease, -sending its stubborn strength out now to bolster -her own? She glanced at the waxy face, half expecting -to see the bloodless lips falling back from -the words.</p> - -<p>Daunt lay motionless. The ice-pack had been -removed from his head, and the shaven temple -showed paste-like beneath the bandage-edge. -From time to time Lois poured between his lips a -teaspoonful of diluted brandy, and, at such times, -Margaret would put her strong arms under his -head and raise it from the pillow, outwardly calm, -but inwardly shuddering with wrenching jerks -of pain.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>So the slow, weary night dragged away. The -house surgeon looked in once, bent over the patient -a moment, and, without examination, went -away.</p> - -<p>The morning broke, and through the walls the -dim, murmurous hum of street traffic penetrated -in a muffled whisper. Then the gray of the late<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> -dawn crept about the room, noiseless-footed, like -one walking over graves. Suddenly Lois, who -had been sitting with closed eyes, felt a touch on -her shoulder. It was Margaret, and she pointed -silently to Daunt. Lois started forward with a -shrinking fear that the end had come unperceived, -but a glance reassured her. The rigid -outlines of his features seemed to have relaxed; -an indefinable something, a warmth, a tinge, a -flexibility seemed to have fallen upon the drawn -cheeks. It was something scarce tangible enough -to be noted; something evasive, and yet, to Lois’s -trained senses, unmistakable. It was a light -loosening of the grip of Death, a tentative withdrawing -of the forces of the destroyer.</p> - -<p>Lois turned with a quick and silent gesture, -and the two girls looked at each other steadfastly. -Into Margaret’s eyes sprang a trembling, eager -light of joy.</p> - -<p>“We mustn’t hope too much, dear,” Lois whispered, -“but I think—I think that there is a little -change. Wait until I call Dr. Irwin.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>The house surgeon bent over the cot with his -finger upon Daunt’s pulse. “This is another one -on Faulkner,” he said. “It beats all how things -will go. Said he’d give him twelve hours, did -he? Well, this patient has his own ideas about -that. He evidently has marvellous recuperative -powers or else the age of miracles isn’t past. Better -watch this case very carefully and report to -me every hour or so. You can count,” he smiled -at Lois, “on being mighty unpopular with Faulkner. -He doesn’t like to have his opinions reversed -this way, and he is pretty sure to lay it on -the nurse.”</p> - -<p>As the doctor disappeared, all the strength -which Margaret had summoned to her aid seemed -to vanish in one great wave of weakening which -overspread her spirit. Everything swam before -her eyes. She sank upon the chair and laid -her arms outstretched upon the table. Then she -slowly dropped her head upon them.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">XXI.</h2></div> - - -<p>It was late afternoon. The fiery sun had just -dipped below the jagged Adirondack hill-peaks -to the south, still casting a carmine glow between -the scattered and low-boughed pines. The -square window of the high-ceiled sanitarium -room was specked with pale-appearing stars, and -the snow-draped slopes beneath showed dim in -the elusive beauty that lurks in soft color and low -tones. Daunt lay silent, facing the window, and -Margaret, tired from romping with the doctor’s -children, rested on a low hassock beside his reclining -chair. Slowly the carmine faded from the -snow, and the hastening winter-dark trailed its -violescent gossamer up and down the rock-clefts -and across the purpling hollows.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>He turned his eyes, all at once feeling her lifted -gaze. He reached out his right hand and touched -the lace edge of her white nurse’s cap, with a faint -smile. Something in the smile and the gesture -caught at her heart. She leaned suddenly -toward him, and taking his hand in both her own, -laid her face upon it.</p> - -<p>He drew his hand away, breathing sharply.</p> - -<p>“Dear!” she said. “Do you remember that -afternoon on the sands? You kissed me then! -I am the same Margaret now—not changed -at all.”</p> - -<p>A shudder passed over him, but he did not -reply.</p> - -<p>Then she knelt beside him, quite close, laying -her cheek by his face on the pillow and drawing -his one live hand up to her lips. “You are everything -to me,” she whispered—“everything, everything! -That day on the beach I was happy; but -not more happy, dear, than I am now. You were -everything else in the world to me then, but now -you are <i>me</i>, myself! Don’t turn away; look at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> -me!” Reaching over, she drew his nerveless left -arm across her neck.</p> - -<p>He turned his face to her with an effort, his -lips struggling to speak.</p> - -<p>“Kiss me!” she commanded.</p> - -<p>He tried to push her back. “No! No!” he -cried vehemently, drawing away. “That’s past.”</p> - -<p>“Not even that! Just think how long I’ve -waited!” She was smiling. “Richard,” she -said, “do you know what it means for a woman to -kneel to a man like this? I haven’t a bit of pride -about it. Only think how ashamed I will be if -you refuse to take me! What does a woman do -when a man refuses her?”</p> - -<p>A white pain had settled upon Daunt’s face. -“Margaret,” he faltered, “don’t; I can’t stand it! -You don’t know what you say.”</p> - -<p>She kissed his hand again. “Yes, I do! I am -saying just as plainly as I can that I love you; -that I belong to you, and that I ask for nothing -else but to belong to you as long as I live.”</p> - -<p>His hand made a motion of protest.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>“I want you just as much as I did the day you -first kissed me. I want the right to stay with you -always and care for you.”</p> - -<p>He winced visibly. “‘Care for me!’” he repeated. -“It would be <i>all</i> care. I have nothing -to bring you now but sorrow and regret. I’m -not the Daunt who offered himself to you at -Warne. I’m only a fragment. I had health and -hopes then. I had beautiful dreams, Margaret—dreams -of work and a home and you. I shan’t -ever forget those dreams, but they can never -come true!”</p> - -<p>She smoothed his hand caressingly. “I have -had dreams, too,” she answered. “This is the -one that comes oftenest of all. It is about you -and me.” She turned her head, with a spot of -color in either cheek. “Sometimes it is in the -day. You are lying, writing away at a new book -of yours, and I am filling your pipe for you, while -the tea is getting hot. I see you smile up to me -and say, ‘Clever girl! how did you know I wanted -a smoke?’ Then you read your last chapter to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span> -me, and I tell you how I wouldn’t have said it the -way the woman in the story does, and you pretend -you are going to change it, and don’t.</p> - -<p>“Sometimes it is in the evening, and we are -looking out at the sunset just as we have been -doing to-night.”</p> - -<p>He would have spoken, but she covered his -mouth with her hand. His moist breath wrapped -her palm.</p> - -<p>“And then it is dark and there is a big red lamp -on the table—the one I had in my old room—and -I am reading the latest novel to you, and when -we have got to the end, you are telling me how -you would have done it.”</p> - -<p>While she had been speaking, glowing and -dark-eyed, a mystical peace—a divine forgetfulness -had touched him. He lifted his hand to his -forehead, feeling her soft fingers. The pictures -she painted were so sweet!</p> - -<p>Presently he threw his arm down with a swallowed -sob. The dream-scene faded, and he lay -once more helpless and despairing, weighted with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span> -the heaviness of useless limbs, a numb burden for -whom there could be no love, no joy, nothing but -the inevitable rebuke of enduring pain. He -smoothed the wide dun-gold waves of her hair -gently.</p> - -<p>“You are not for such a sacrifice, Margaret,” -he said sadly. “I am not such a coward. You -are a woman—a perfect, beautiful woman—the -kind that God made all happiness for.”</p> - -<p>“But I couldn’t be happy without you!” she -cried.</p> - -<p>“Nor with me,” he answered. “No, I’ve got -to face it! All the long years I should watch -that womanhood of yours growing dimmer and -less full, your outlook narrowing, your life’s sympathies -shrinking. I shall be shut up to myself -and grow away from the world, but you shall not -grow away from it with me! It would be a -crime! I should come to hate myself. I want -you to live your life out worthily. I would -rather remember you as you are now, and as -loving me once for what I was!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>Margaret’s eyes were closed. She was thinking -of Melwin and Lydia.</p> - -<p>“Woman needs more to fill her life than the -love of a man’s mind. She wants more, dear. -She wants the love of the heart-beat. She wants -home—the home I wanted to make for you—the -kind I used to dream of—the——” His voice -broke here and failed.</p> - -<p>The door pushed open without a knock. A -tiny night-gowned figure stood swaying on the -sill, outlined sharply against the glare of lamp-light.</p> - -<p>“Vere’s ’iss Mar’det?” he said in high baby -key. “I yants her to tiss me dood-night!”</p> - -<p>Margaret’s hand still lay against Daunt’s cheek, -and as she drew it away, she felt a great hot tear -suddenly wet her fingers.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> -<h2 class="nobreak">XXII.</h2></div> - - -<p>Snow had fallen in the night—a wet snow, -mingled with sleet and fleering rain. It had -spread a flashing, silver sheen over the vast -wastes, and the sun glinted and laughed from a -web of woven jewels. It gleamed from every -needle of the stalwart evergreens, which stood -around in dazzling ice-armor, keeping guard -above the virgin snow asleep, with its white -curves dimpling beside the rough, bearish mountains. -Overhead the sky bent in tranquil baby-blue.</p> - -<p>The beauty of the frozen morning hung cheerily -about the row of pillowed chairs wheeled before -the glass sides of the long sun-parlor. To -some who gazed from these chairs it was a -glimpse of the world into which they would soon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span> -return; to others it was but the symbol of another -weary winter of lengthening waiting. But -to each it brought a comfort and a hope.</p> - -<p>The same fair whiteness of the outdoors shone -mockingly through Daunt’s window. Its very -loveliness seemed cruel, with that insidious raillery -with which Nature, be she gloomy or bright, -fits our darker moods. Through the night, while -Margaret’s phantom touch lay upon his forehead, -and the ghosts of her kisses crept across his hand, -he had fought with his longing, and he had won. -But it was a triumphless victory. The pulpy -ashes of his own denial were in his mouth. He -had asked so little—only to see her, to hear her -step, and the lisping movement of her dress, and -the cadence of her voice—only to feel the touch -of her fingers and the drench of her warm, young -life! She loved him; his love, he told himself, -incomplete as it was, would take the place of all -for her. And in his heart he told himself that -he lied!</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span>But the rayless darkness of that inner room -cast no shadow in the cozy sun-parlor. There, -the doctor, with youthful step that belied his -graying hair, strode about among the patients, -chatting lightly, and full of good-natured badinage. -Then, leaving them smiling, he went back -to his private office. As he entered, Margaret -rose from the chair where she waited, and came -hurriedly toward him. She was pale, and her -slender hands were clasping nervously about her -wrists.</p> - -<p>“Doctor,” she began, and stopped an instant. -Then stumblingly, “I have just got your note. I -came to ask you—I want to beg you to—not to -make me go back! I—want to stay so much! -I know so well how to wait on him. You know -I wasn’t a regular nurse at the hospital. It was -only a trial. Dr. Goodno doesn’t expect me -back.”</p> - -<p>He drew out a chair for her and made her sit -down, wiping his glasses laboriously. “My dear -child—Miss Langdon—” he said, “I know how<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> -you feel. My good friend Mrs. Goodno wrote -me of you when Mr. Daunt came to us. She is -a splendid, noble-hearted woman, and she wrote -of you as though you were her own daughter. -You see,” he continued, “when you first came, it -was suspected that Mr. Daunt’s peculiar paralysis -might be of a hysteric type, and might yield -naturally, under treatment, with a bettering physical -condition, or, possibly, under the impulse of -some extra nervous stimulus. Such cases are not -unmet with.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” she said anxiously.</p> - -<p>He polished his glasses again. “I am sorry to -say,” he went on, “that we have long ago abandoned -this hope, as you know. Such being the -case, it seems, under the peculiar circumstances, -advisable—that is, it would be better not to——” -He stopped, feeling that he was floundering in -deeper water than he thought.</p> - -<p>“Oh, if you only knew!” Margaret’s voice -was shaking. “I came here because I love him, -doctor, and because he loved me! Surely I can<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> -at least stay by him. I am experienced enough -to nurse him. It’s the only thing left now for me -to be happy in. He wants me! He’s more cheerful -when I am with him. I know he doesn’t -really need a special nurse, but—I don’t have to -earn the money for it. I do it because I like it.”</p> - -<p>“My dear young lady,” the doctor said, wheeling, -with suspicious abruptness, in his chair, “be -sure that it is only your own best good that is -considered. There are cruel facts in life that we -have to face. This seems very hard for you now, -I know. It <i>is</i> hard! He is a brave man, and believe -me, my child, he knows best.”</p> - -<p>Margaret half rose from her seat. “‘He’?—<i>he</i> -knows best—Richard? Does <i>he</i> say—did Mr. -Daunt——”</p> - -<p>He took her hand as a father might. “It was -not easy for him,” he said simply.</p> - -<p>She bowed her head in piteous acquiescence, -and held his fingers a moment, her lips striving -courageously for a smile, and then went silently -out.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span>As she passed Daunt’s closed door on the way -to her room, she stretched out her arms and -touched its dark panels softly, fearfully, and then -leaned forward, and once laid her lips against the -hard grained wood.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>An hour later, from where he lay, Daunt could -see the bulbous, ulstered figure of the colored -driver as he waited by the porch to take his single -passenger to the distant Lake station. He could -see the rake of the horses’ ears as the man swung -his arms, pounding his sides to keep the blood -circulating. His steamy breath made a curdling -smoke-cloud about his peaked cap.</p> - -<p>Daunt’s blood forged painfully as the square -ormolu clock on the mantel pointed near to the -hour. There were lines of sleeplessness beneath -his eyes; his face was instinct with suffering. -Through his open door came the mingled tones -of conversation in the rooms beyond.</p> - -<p>He was sitting up, his vigorous hair, grown -over-long during his illness, blending its hue with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span> -that of the dark chair-cushion. The white collar -that he wore seemed to have lent its pallor to -his cheeks.</p> - -<p>He felt himself to have aged during the night. -Through the long weeks since his accident, he -had hoped against hope. The doctors had talked -speciously of change of scene and bracing mountain -air. He had been glad enough to leave the -foreboding atmosphere of the hospital for this -more cheery hill-top harbor. He had never -known nor asked by what arrangement Margaret -was now with him; it had seemed only natural -that it should be so. His patches of delirium -memories were every one brightened by her face -and touch, and this state had merged itself gradually -into the waking consciousness when she was -always by. Without questioning, he had come -to realize that whatever might have risen between -them in the past was forever gone, and rested -content in her near presence and the promise of -the future.</p> - -<p>But as the weeks dragged themselves by he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span> -come to know, with a kind slowness of realization, -that this hope must die. In their late talks, -both of them had tacitly recognized this. In the -night of his growing despair, she had been his -one star. Now he must shut out that ray with -his own hands and turn his face to the intolerable -dark.</p> - -<p>When her head had been next his on the pillow, -with his nostrils full of the clean, grassy -fragrance of her hair—when her hand had closed -his lips and her voice had plead with him, he -had seen, as through a lightning-rift, the enormity -of the selfishness with which he had let his -soul be tempted. From that moment there was -for him but one way—<i>this</i> way. And he had accepted -it unflinchingly, heroically.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The spring of the wide stairway broke and -turned half way up, and from where he sat his -eye sighted the landing and that slim figure coming -slowly down. It was the old Margaret in -street dress. Above the fur of her close, fawn<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span> -cloth coat, her hopeless eyes looked over the -balustrade along which her slight, gloved hand -slid weakly, as though seeking support for her -limbs.</p> - -<p>She crossed the threshold and came toward -him, with her eyes half closed, as though in a -maze of grief. The hollows beneath them looked -bruised, and her features pinched like a child’s -with the cold. Gropingly and blindly, one hand -reached out to him, the other she pressed close -to her throat. She was bathed in a wave of violent -trembling.</p> - -<p>Every stretching fibre in Daunt’s being responded. -He could feel the shuddering palpitation -through her suède glove. His self-restraint -hung about him like heavy chains, which the -quiver of an eyelash, the impulse of a sigh, would -start into clamorous vibration.</p> - -<p>He looked up and their eyes met once. Her -gaze clung to him. His lips formed, rather than -spoke, the word “Good-by.” Then he put her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> -hand aside and turned his head from her, not to -see her go.</p> - -<p>His strained ear heard her uncertain footfalls, -and the agony of his mind counted them! Now -she was by the table. Now her hand was on the -knob. Now—— He sprang around, facing her -at the sound of a stumble and a dulled blow; she -had pitched forward against the opened door, -swaying—about to fall.</p> - -<p>As her knees touched the floor, a scream burst -shrill in the silence of the room—a scream that -pierced the drowsy quiet of the sun-parlor and -brought the doctor running through the hall.</p> - -<p>“Margaret!”</p> - -<p>Its intensity dragged her from the swoon. She -turned her head. Daunt was standing in the -middle of the floor, his eyes shining with fluctuant -fire, his arms—<i>both</i> arms—stretched out -toward her.</p> - -<p>“Margaret!” he screamed. “Margaret! I -can walk!”</p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_logo.jpg" alt="" /></div> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="transnote"> -<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> - - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p> - -<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p> - -<p>Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.</p> -</div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's A Furnace of Earth, by Hallie Ermine Rives - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A FURNACE OF EARTH *** - -***** This file should be named 62707-h.htm or 62707-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/7/0/62707/ - -Produced by D A Alexander, David E. 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