XXXReturning to the house after full two hours, she burst excitedly in upon Courtney, who was at her easel in the upstairs sitting room. Courtney had by much experimenting found that of her several possible indoor occupations painting was far the best sedative for mind and nerves. The girl's face, exultant with pride, exalted with love, gave her a shock; for, only complete triumph could have so roused those regular, chastely cool features from their wonted repose. She had on impulse sent Helen to Basil in vague hope that they, admirably suited because each needed just what the other had to give, possibly might somehow get a start in the direction of making a match of it. She had the most convincing of reasons for believing that the heart in need of balm is the most susceptible to it. But she did not believe that Basil's heart was, at least latterly, involved; and, as she had not a glimmer of a suspicion of his stolen draughts of "moral tonic," she could not credit the story so clearly written upon those radiant features."You don't mean you got him!" she exclaimed, laying her brush on the rest and leaning back. And in her amazement and excitement over this sudden freakish prank of fate, out of her mind flew all the wretched thoughts over which she had been brooding—thoughts centering about her own ugly part in that scene at the laboratory.Helen, undisturbed by this frankness of woman to woman friend, when there are no listeners, flung ecstatic arms about her and kissed her on either cheek. "I'm so happy!" she cried. "And I owe it all to you.""Engaged?" inquired Courtney, the utter impossibility of the thing down-facing the clear evidence of its actuality.Helen held up her left hand, displaying the old-fashioned diamond ring Basil had always worn on his little finger. "It was his mother's," she said, regarding it with an expression in the big brown eyes that would have thrilled him, had he seen. It thrilled Courtney; and no further proof of the absolute passing of Basil was needed than the unalloyed pleasure Helen's happiness gave her. "Engaged," said Helen, softly, dreamily. "And the day set—the second of June.""Splendid!" Helen, she felt, was secure; for, Basil had the highest respect for his given word."And if you hadn't sent me down there, I do believe it'd never have happened. Just think!—though we've loved each other practically from the first meeting. He says it was his feeling about me that started him to struggling against that bad woman. Do you remember——""Yes, I remember," said Courtney. How dead it all was!—dead with the death that leaves no scar upon the heart, only a lesson in the memory. How could it ever have seemed living?—and immortal!"Oh—of course you remember. You knew about her.""Not much about her," replied Courtney. Pensively, "Really, nothing at all.""I'm sure I don't want to know anything. The less a good woman knows about evil, the better.... I think recently he must have almost succeeded in breaking away; for, to-day I'm sure he was hesitating at the parting of the ways—whether to go back to her or not. And my coming there decided him. Isn't it beautiful?""Like a fairy tale," said Courtney, taking up her brush and eying critically the little landscape to which she was giving the finishing touches. "But, my dear, I don't think you ought to tell me these things."She felt selfish in saying this; Helen had inexperienced youth's irresistible craving to confide, and was simply bursting with simple and innocent vanity over having achieved the double triumph of both spiritual and worldly advantage. But Helen was not to be suppressed or even discouraged. "Oh, yes," replied she. "He asked me to tell you we are engaged. I think he knows you've heard about that woman who was dragging him down, and thought you could advise me whether he was a fit man for me to marry. You see he feels he's been very bad.""Men always like to think that," said Courtney. "But as long as they think so, they're not. No, he isn't bad, as men go. He wants to settle down. And he will settle down—with you." She was looking at the landscape but her quizzical eyes were seeing the pair of them a few years hence, contentedly yawning at each other, leading the conventional life of the well-to-do that swathes them body and mind in soft, indolent fat.Helen had only half listened to Courtney, as she cared as little as the next woman about her lover's past, and knew for herself that he was high-minded and of the noblest instincts. She halted her own and Courtney's musings with an absent, "I feel that way about it, too." She moved nervously about the room, from time to time casting an appealing glance at her absorbed friend. Finally she burst out desperately: "There's something I want your advice about. I don't know whether I've done right or not.""Yes?" said Courtney, encouragingly."I hadn't told you but—the fact is—while I was on that visit to Saint X, I—I became engaged to Will Arbuthnot."Courtney looked laughingly at her over the suspended brush. "Oh, Helen—Helen!""But let me explain, dear," begged Helen, cheeks scarlet and eyes down. "When I went up there—and until just a few minutes ago—I thought—" Her faltering voice died away altogether."Thought there was no hope of getting Basil," said Courtney, with no censure, with only sympathy. She resumed touching up the picture to ease Helen's embarrassment. "Go on.""I thought he was hopelessly in the power of that bad woman. So, I put my feeling for him out of my heart.... I know you're laughing at me. You're so cynical, Courtney. But a girl has got to do the best she can. And it's getting harder and harder for a poor girl to marry—that is, to marry a man with anything. And brought up as I've been I have to have nice surroundings. I want a good home—and—and—children—and they must be educated properly—and able to keep their place in our station of life.""Certainly," reassured Courtney. "You did the practical, sensible thing.""I know, what I didseemsto bear out your ideas. You're always teasing me about my ideals being mostly pretense. Well, perhaps they are. It does look like it—doesn't it?""Everybody's are," said Courtney, squinting at the picture. "Ideals are paste pearls. One can wear much bigger and finer ones than of the real—and nobody knows they're paste—or need ever know if one's careful to avoid their being tested. I'm glad, dear, you weren't so foolish as you always insisted you'd be."Helen looked as if her soul were freed of a huge weight. "I will say, Courtney, that I'd never think of confiding in any person who believes like me, while I always feel safe in confiding in you.""Thank you," said Courtney with genuine gratitude. "You don't know what a flattering compliment that is.... So, you're engaged to Will Arbuthnot?""Yes—that is, up at Saint X Will asked me to marry him. He's a nice, clean, thoroughly good fellow. And when Basil went away I supposed he'd gone to that bad——""I understand," interrupted Courtney. "Never mind about her.""I felt I could grow to like Will, and I put Basil out of my heart." There she fluttered a guiltily uneasy glance at Courtney."And now," teased Courtney, "you give the naughty man the preference over the nice one.""That's just it!" exclaimed Helen in triumph. "Basil needs me. I did hesitate—at least, I tried to—until he begged me to strengthen him by saying yes. Then I felt it was clearly my duty." Helen took Courtney's amused nod at her landscape as approval. "And while I hated to do a thing that in a way might seem deceitful—still, Basil has such an exalted opinion of me—and it helps him, to feel that way—and if he had found out that I hadn't loved him all along—or if I'd asked him to wait—I might have lost all chance to help him to be the noble, good man—Don'tsmile that way. Courtney."And Courtney instantly changed her smile to one of tenderness. "I know you're good and sweet, dear—and beautifully sincere," said she, with perfect honesty; for, experience had left in her little of the familiar self-complacence that condemns human beings for human traits. "Much too good for Basil.""Of course," said Helen, beaming, "a woman who has kept herself pure is superior to a man who has not been clean and nice.""Always make Basil feel that," advised Courtney. "He's the kind of man that can behave only when he's on his knees—and you're the kind of woman that prefers worship to love.... I suppose you'll live in the East.""In New York, I think," replied Helen, reflectively. "He talks of the country. But I've had enough of that. I'm sure he'd be better contented in a city."Courtney laughed gayly. "What a dear you are!" she exclaimed, looking at her friend tenderly. "And so absolutely unconscious of it."Helen returned her gaze in unaffected surprise. "I don't know what you mean. Why do you laugh?""Nothing." Courtney was painting again. "What are you going to do about Will Arbuthnot?""Why, be perfectly honest with him," cried Helen, injured and reproachful. "I simply couldn't be deceitful.""Tell him you've found you can make a better match? Oh, you mustn't do that.""I should think not!" exclaimed Helen, horrified. "That wouldn't be the truth. No, I'll tell him I find I don't love him as a woman should love the man she's to give herself to. You know I've got the old-fashioned ideals—that is, ideas—of the sacredness of womanhood. He'll understand.""Yes," said Courtney gravely, though her eyes were dancing, "he'll have a deeper reverence for true womanhood.... Well, the men deserve it. They're responsible for our not daring to be our natural human selves.""But Iamnatural, dear," remonstrated Helen warmly.Courtney was busily trying for a shade of brown on her palette. "You're sure Basil won't hear of your other engagement? Remember, he knows several Saint X people.""I made an agreement with Will that we'd keep it a secret until we got ready to marry." Courtney laughed again; it was so obvious what lingering longing and hope had prompted this precaution. "Whatareyou laughing atnow?" asked Helen."I wouldn't spoil your innocence by telling you," replied Courtney. And she rose and, palette in one hand, brush in the other, kissed her affectionately. "I'm glad you're happy—and I'm sure you'll always be happy.""Indeed I shall. And he'll be happy too. As he said, he's lived in an atmosphere of deceit and falsehood, and he needs to be lifted up into purity and love and—and—all that makes a good home and life on a high plane."Courtney was smiling strangely into her color box. "You'll be married in Saint X at Mrs. Torrey's, I suppose?"Helen began her answer in a place so remote that Courtney, used as she was to the complexities of feminine thought, was completely baffled. Said Helen: "Will Cousin Richard think me disloyal, marrying a man he's at outs with?"Courtney reflected. "I don't know what he'll think." she said. "But you've got to consider yourself first—and Basil.""Yes, certainly—" Again Helen was only half listening. "About the wedding," she presently said. "I was thinking it out, while Basil and I were talking——""Helen—Helen!" And the small head with its auburn crown shook in mock disapproval. "Not while he was making his first love to you?"Helen reddened. "I had to think about things. You know, a woman can't afford to let herself loose like a man. And I decided it'd be best for us not to announce the engagement, but just to marry. And not at Saint X. I'll go up to Aunt Lida's in Laporte. What is it, dear? Why do you look so queer?""Nothing—nothing." Courtney had no desire—indeed, what would have been the use?—to tell her thoughts as she viewed the swamp of deceit and double dealing into which Helen and Basil were dragging each other in pursuit of those will-o'-the-wisp ideals. Ideals! But Courtney's lip did not curl in scorn as it would have curled a few months before. She had learned that supreme lesson of tolerance—even when you are sure you are right, not to fancy that what is right for you is right for anyone else."No," Helen was saying, "I'll not tell Richard. It would annoy him and do no good. Oh, I ought to be ashamed of myself, to be so happy when you are unhappy.""I—unhappy?""I know you conceal it, dear. You're brave and self-reliant. But— Isn't thereanythingI could do to bring you and Dick together again? You're a woman, dear. You simply have to be taken care of, and——""Don't shadow your romance with worry about me," said Courtney nervously. She was all confusion and restlessness."But I can't help it," pleaded Helen. "I know Richard was neglectful. And he's not an attractive man to a woman, as Basil is—isn't livable and lovable like Basil——"Helen went on and on contrasting the two men, to Richard's disadvantage at every point. In former days she had been too much "afraid Richard'll find out how foolish I am and how little I know" to get in the least acquainted with him; since the divorce they had talked only constrained commonplaces, when she took Winchie to him. Thus, the comparison was grotesque distortion of Richard. But Courtney was not tempted to try to set her right. Helen, of small mentality and in love with Basil, would not appreciate, would not be convinced, would simply be irritated—would probably misunderstand and be encouraged to pursue her absurd scheme for bringing them together. But parallel with Helen's talk there was in Courtney's mind a juster contrasting of the two men—the one strong, the other weak; the one real, the other idealist; the one simple, the other aposeur; the one intelligent, the other merely conceited; the one master of his emotions, the other their slave; the one an original, the other a pattern, an identical sample of thousands turned out by the "best families" and the "best colleges" and the "best society." And then it came to her why she had estimated Basil quickly and accurately, once she began it—that it was because in Richard she for the first time had a measure to do her measuring with. The mists of his abstraction had completely hid his personality from her, as from everybody. Those mists had blown away in the cyclone of the disruption of their marriage, and he had stood revealed—and Basil also—Basil, the dwarf beside the giant. She could see how the lesser man had made what was, in the circumstances, irresistible appeal to the imperious craving that must be satisfied before the need of heart for sympathy and of mind for comradeship could gain a hearing, the craving that in gaining its ends will compel the imagination to play any necessary sorry trick upon the intelligence. She could see this; and she could also see how sorry the trick upon intelligence had been—how absurd was her dream of founding a life-long content and happiness upon what Basil could give her and she Basil."I'm sure," Helen was saying, "with a little management you could get Richard back."These words fell upon Courtney's ears just as into her mind again came that scene between her and Richard at the laboratory—the childish, the coarse taunts she had hurled at him, and how he had met them. She was hot with the shame of it when Helen spoke. The suggestion that Richard could be got back overwhelmed her with a crushing, stinging sense of how in contempt he must hold her now. The red of her skin flamed up into scarlet. "Don't speak of those things," she commanded harshly. Then, instantly ashamed of this misdirected outburst of temper, she put on her most careless, frivolous air—put it on well enough to deceive Helen. "Let's talk trousseau," said she. "You haven't much time, you know. June's very near."But Helen was too curious about the trouble that had so abruptly changed a friendship into hatred. "It must have been exciting—that quarrel between them," she hinted encouragingly. "You were there, weren't you?""Yes.""Tell me, Courtney.""It cured my cold," said Courtney. "I'd been feeling queer in the nose and eyes——""Howcanyou be so light!" exclaimed Helen. "Well—let's talk trousseau." She felt that she had done her duty, that it was a waste of time to try to induce Courtney to be serious— "Sheneverwill have any sense of responsibility—or of the graver side of life." And with a clear conscience she took up trousseau and thought and talked dress steadily the rest of the afternoon, straight through until the supper gong sounded. And she asked so many questions, so much minute advice about every little detail that Courtney's attention could not wander.At supper Courtney got a real pleasure from Helen's rapt, tenderly smiling countenance—they could not talk before Lizzie as the engagement was to be kept secret. Also, she got pleasure mingled with amusement out of Helen's delightful swift assumption of the ways of a married woman, and out of her immense satisfaction—as shown in a certain sweet and loving condescension to Courtney—over Basil's superiority as a catch. Helen was in fancy already married and installed in grandeur. But after supper, when Helen went up to write her first love letter—(those to Will Arbuthnot didn't count)—Courtney made no attempt to save herself from the attack of the blues that had been threatening ever since she calmed sufficiently to recall what she had said to Dick at the laboratory. She sat at the piano playing softly. Helen's face was haunting her—that expression telling of dreams she understood so well—so well! Would Helen's dream fade too? Probably—yes, certainly—for, the Helen sort of woman soon discouraged love in a man, and the Basil sort of man looked askance at love as tainted of that devil whom no one believed in any more yet everyone feared. Fade—wither—die. And she herself—would she seek on and on, deceived always by hopes and longings—as she had been twice already—the second time worse deceived than the first——Into her thoughts came an image of Richard. The image grew stronger. Very gradually she realized that he was actually before her, was the tall figure in the doorway of the sitting room——"I didn't dare interrupt," he said. "It would have been like disturbing a funeral.""Not quite so bad as that," replied she with an attempt to smile. Though her rose-bronze coloring enabled her to blush deeply without detection, had the corner where she was sitting been less dim he must have seen into what shamefaced confusion his coming threw her.She went on playing; he seated himself at some distance from her to gaze into the fire and smoke. She was on the grill of humiliating thoughts about herself—what she had said and done that afternoon. She did not lift her eyes until she had made sure by several furtive glances that she could look at him in safety. She watched him—the cigarette gracefully between the long first and second fingers of his hand of the aristocrat and the artist—the poise of his curiously long head so well proportioned—the long, sensitive, mobile features—that indescribable look which proclaims at a glance the man of high intelligence—the man of the finely organized nervous system. Then she observed that he was in evening half dress—one more reason for his looking unusually handsome and distinguished. But all the time she was seeing those two expressions which had transformed him that afternoon—had transformed him and had made her feel mean and poor beside him. A man who could be such a wild hot blast of primeval passion; the man who could be stronger than passion, even such passion—there was indeed a man! And what must he think of her! "But no worse than I deserve."To break the current of her own thoughts, she interrupted his with a trivial "You are dressed this evening.""Because I've come to call," he replied, rousing himself from his reverie."I'll tell Helen.""I want to talk to you—if you'll listen." She stopped the soft wandering of her fingers over the keys. "No, go on playing, please."She resumed. Now her eyes were on the keyboard, and she was having no easy task of it finding the right keys and striking the right chords, all the time conscious of his steady penetrating gaze. "It's nearing the time you fixed for going East," he began.She nodded slowly in time to the music. He was so seated that the piano prevented his seeing any of her but her bare shoulders and graceful head with its masses of auburn hair, against a background of palms and ferns. "I'm glad the spring is so backward this year," she said; for, she had learned not to fear his misunderstanding, if she spoke out her thoughts. "If it were really spring with the grounds all in bloom and the windows wide— It makes me sad to think of that."She had thought she might perhaps soften his contempt by reminding him that there was another and a less repellant side to her character. But as soon as the words were out, she wished she had not spoken; it was useless to try to make him think well of her. He was probably regretting that he had let her have Winchie. She looked appealingly toward him, hoping he would speak—say anything—no matter what, so long as it broke that silence of painful suspense. When she could endure it no longer, she suddenly burst out: "You've come to ask me to leave at once. You are right, I'll go as soon as I can pack.""On the contrary," said he, eyes still intent upon the tall shafts of flame leaping toward the cavernous blackness of the chimney. "I've come to ask you not to go at all."His tone was calm and self-controlled. It contained no suggestion of ominous meaning; nor did his face."I—I don't understand," she ventured, nervously."I want to propose," explained he, in the same deliberate way, "that we give each other another trial."There was no mistaking his meaning. In the sudden reversal from all she had been expecting and fearing, her thoughts became mere chaos. Hands resting upon the keys, she sat silent, rigid—waiting.He turned his chair, leaned toward her, his elbows on his knees. "Is the idea—is it—distasteful to you?" he asked.Carefully, with her tapering fingers she measured chords without striking them. "Notdistasteful," said she."You do not dislike me—now?""I never have, except for a few minutes now and then—when you said or did tyrannical things." Painfully embarrassed, she was trying to regain control of herself under cover of arranging the chiffon round the edge of the bosom of her dress."Courtney, I'm a different man from what I was.""Yes," she assented, without reserve. "Very different. But——""Don't, please," he said, before she could begin to explain. "When you've heard my reasons for asking you to stay, you may think well of them. If not, why you at least can refuse more intelligently. This afternoon, when Gallatin was down at the laboratory making an ass of himself, you whirled upon me with some very vivid reminders of what you had been to him.""I was insane with rage—not that it wasn't all true—only—I—it was—" She hung her head—"Oh, I'm so ashamed!—so ashamed!" she cried."I'm glad you did," interrupted he, heartily. "You thought to infuriate me. And you did, for a moment. Then—I was astonished to find myself quite calm. Do you know why?""Yes. Because you care nothing about me.""Because I care nothing about him. Because I know you've ceased to think you care about him—care, you never did. Since I've come to my senses, I've been getting acquainted with you. And I know you do not and never did and never could love Basil Gallatin. That is, the woman you are now—the only one that interests either of us—never did and never could."The deep green eyes glanced gratefully toward him. "That's true.""It was simply what you and I went through with when we first met—and became engaged—and got married.""Yes," said she. "Much the same. But—" Her eyes met his fully. "It wouldn't be honest if I didn't say too that I do not regret—about him. I suppose there's something wrong with me, but somehow I don't seem able to regret anything I do—even the things I'm ashamed of—like what I said this afternoon. It all seems part of experience. It seems necessary. That experience with him—it helped me toward learning to live."She expected that he would be offended by her frankness. But he was not. "It helped you toward learning to live," he assented, like one stating an indisputable truth. "And it helped me. No, more than that. Ittaughtme.... I wish the lesson could have been got in some—some other way. Perhaps you do, too." She nodded, gazing thoughtfully across the piano into the fire. "But," he went on, "fate doesn't let us choose our way—or, perhaps, there's no nice, refined way of getting one's full growth, any more than there is for a tree. It's simply got to stand outdoors in all weathers, and learn to survive and grow strong, no matter what comes.""And the things that seem to hinder, often help most—and those that look like helps are enemies."She saw his understanding, appreciative look, though her eyes were gazing past him; and she liked it. "We've both learned," said he. "And we've both been put in the way of learning more. Now why shouldn't you and I use our experience to the best advantage?""I intend to try," said she."Then it's simply a question of what is the best advantage. Isn't it for us both to stay on here?""I don't think so," was her slow reply. "Not for either of us.""But you'll listen to my reasons? Really listen, I mean. You know, you caught my bad habit of not listening.""Yes," she said with a forced, uneasy smile. "I'll listen.""Well—first, there's this place. You like it, don't you? You must, since you made it. I've found that out, too.""I love it," she answered. "But—" She shook her head."Now, do try to be patient with me. You must consider all three of my reasons together. That was only number one. Number two is Winchie."She searched his face with swift terrified eyes. He smiled a frank and winning reassurance that instantly convinced her. "Please put that kind of thoughts about me out of your mind forever," he urged. "I've learned my lesson—that the beginning of fear is the end of trust. The boy's yours. You've got the right to him; he's got the right to you. Even if I could do for him, it'd be my duty— But I didn't come here this evening to talk about duty. That's a rotten hypocrisy.""Is this Richard Vaughan?" she cried laughingly."The same—minus his grandfather," replied he, eyes and voice echoing her laugh. "No more duty for me. When anybody talks about doing his duty, he'd better be watched. If he boasts of having done his duty he'd better be locked up while they find out what mischief he's been at. No, I'm out for honest, selfish inclination only. That brings me to my third reason. I want you to stay. But—for very selfish sensible reasons I want you to want to stay. I've gotten acquainted with you. I need you. There's nobody who could take your place."She smiled at what seemed to her the extravagant kindness of this."I mean just that," he went on. It wasn't the words he was saying; it never is a matter of words. It was the way he said it—the force behind the words, like the force behind the projectile. "I need you. Don't you think you could learn to need me? A man needs a woman. A woman needs a man. We've never given each other a fair trial. Why shouldn't we? Now that you've taught me, I don't want you to abandon me. And why should you begin all over again with another man?"She sat motionless, hardly breathing, it seemed, from the stillness of her bosom. He waited long but no answer came. He went to the big old-fashioned chimneypiece, stood with his back to the logs; a look of somberness came into his face. "Well," he said, "I've said my say." There was silence in the room. He drew a long breath. "What do you think?"She lifted her head. With flushed face and reproachful, almost resentful eyes she cried: "You've no right to come at me that way. You make it hard for me to do as I wish.""You wish to go? Then it's settled." He turned his face to the fire, and she could not see it. "We'll not speak of this again." His voice seemed natural; but there must have been some subtle quality in it that set her nerves to vibrating."And you," she cried, "are thinking 'How mean and ungrateful she is—after my generosity to refuse to——'""Not so!" he protested sharply, wheeling round. "I've not been generous. When I told you the fault was chiefly mine, I meant it.""When a man treats a woman as if she were a human being, it's generosity, as the world goes," insisted she. And then the words began to pour from her as if they had suddenly found an outlet. "You make me feel small and mean in refusing. Oh, I'm grateful for the way you've treated me—but I hate myself for being grateful—and I'm ashamed that it is hateful. But I can't be different. Your generosity—your forgiveness hurt my pride. They make me feel I'm your inferior—and I am. But I mustn't stay where I'd feel humble. You make me ashamed to go, but I know I've the right to go—and that I ought to go. I must!""Then—you are going," was his unhesitating reply. "I don't want you to stay. I see you don't believe me—don't understand me—and no wonder. It'd be useless to try again, unless we were both determined with all our hearts to make a success if success was at all possible.""And it couldn't be a success," said she, a touching melancholy in her voice, in her deep, mysterious eyes. "For, a man doesn't want an equal woman but a dependent—wants his woman to be like his dog. Oh, what a world it is!—where everybody cants about self-respect, and everybody prefers cringers to friends, fear to love!""Not I," said Vaughan, in the quiet forceful manner that fitted so well his air of reserve power, of strength without strenuosity. "And that's why I want you. Courtney, don't you see that you're free and independent here, now? Don't you see it'd be a waste of time, a waste of energy, for you to go away? You may not need me, but I need you—in every way. You can get along without me. But how can I get along without you? Where would I find a woman who could take your place?"Her bosom was rising and falling stormily. Her eyes wandered, as if she were desperately seeking a way of escape and had scant hope of finding it."Can't you give 'us' another trial?" he asked, with proud humility."I cannot," she cried, starting up in her agitation. "I cannot! I must go. There's everything here but the one thing I must have—what you never could give me, after all that's happened—and then, there's what I said to you this afternoon. We never could look at each other without my feeling that you— Oh, let's not talk about it. I must go—I must! I cannot live without love—equal love. I must seek until I find it—find some one who needs me—all of me—all I have to give—and must give."He left the hearth and faced her with the length of the piano between them. "Could you love me?" he asked.His voice set to vibrating nerves she had thought would never again respond to him. She trembled, and her eyes sank. "Even if I could—you couldn't love me. You could forgive—could be generous and kind. But you couldn't love.""But I do love you," he said. And she, looking at him in wonder, thought there had never shone eyes so near to being the very soul itself. "I began to love you when you sent Gallatin away and faced me alone and did not lie. I came back because— You were like the air to me, Courtney. One isn't conscious of the air unless he hasn't it, and can't breathe. I've loved you more and more, day by day, ever since. And I shall love you more and more—need you more and more—every day until I die. Courtney—can't you forgive me? I am sorry for what I did—and—I love you."She sank upon the piano seat, flung her slim white arms along the keyboard, buried her face in them. "I've found it!" she sobbed. "I've found it!"Several discoveries in chemistry give Richard Vaughan fame, and Courtney shares it. But they value it all at nothing beside the discovery which gives them happiness: That the wise make of their mistakes a ladder, the foolish a grave.THE END* * * * * * * *OTHER BOOKS BYDAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPSMr. Phillips does not follow the usual fashion in novels. He has a fashion of his own. His readers are now numbered by the scores of thousands. In at least one of our cities, at the public library where they take ten copies of each of Mr. Phillips's new books, there is usually a waiting-listfive to seven monthslong for a chance at it, which shows one of two things, or perhaps both: to how much trouble some people will go to save the trifling expenditure of the price of a book, or how extremely popular Mr. Phillips is—so popular that he has a multitude of eager readers among those who cannot afford to buy books.It is no small triumph to win all kinds of readers, as Mr. Phillips has. The reason he has achieved it is because he writes about life as we live it ourselves, in our hearts and in our homes and in our dealings with each other—the familiar yet startling and always fascinating truth about life.Mr. Phillips is an Indiana man in the early forties. He graduated from De Pauw University and then from Princeton. He has had a career giving him unusual opportunities to observe the life of all kinds of people, high and low, rich and poor, town and country, here and abroad. As he watched the struggle of humanity to live—the concealment and subterfuge, the extraordinary mixture of good and bad in everyone—all the conflict in the jungle which we call life impressed itself on him, and he gradually found that fiction—the novel—was presenting to him the best medium for him to express to everyone what he had found in his work so far. The result has been that in the last few years Mr. Phillips has gathered together an audience of thousands, who watch each book as it appears. It is interesting to see what he has produced.Mr. Phillips's novel just preceding the present work isThe Fashionable Adventures ofJOSHUA CRAIGConcerning this story, the LondonTimessaid: "Until the modern Balzac actually arrives, perhaps Mr. David Graham Phillips may be permitted to fill the gap"; and of the hero it said: "Joshua Craig, a Lincoln adapted for the use of latter-day Americans."It is the story of a strong, virile personality set among the frothy superficialities of society life in Washington. Joshua Craig, a young Western lawyer, is striving to make a name for himself in national politics, and carries everything before him by his cyclonic forcefulness. In spite of his bourgeois birth, he tears down the barriers of society, and his utter disregard of conventionalities makes him the sensation of the season. And yet, for all his frank contempt of the methods of Aristocracy, their plots and littleness, he finds among them one "woman," Margaret Severance. He lays siege to her with all his impulsiveness and the assurance of success, and makes her own honest self do battle with the scheming smallnesses of her aristocratic bringing up. He carries her away with a masterfulness that is characteristic of him, and marries her before she can get her breath. Big and rough and crude, repelling and yet compelling, he fights for the supremacy of his fundamental ideas, and step by step the "lady" in her gives way to the "woman," always struggling, always battling. She finally yields to his will—to become the quiescent wife of a candidate for governor.Just preceding this book, Mr. Phillips publishedOLD WIVES FOR NEWMany, many critics have called this novel immoral and gross. It is not so. It tells the naked truth—not brutally, but frankly. It is not romance. It is real life. It deals with a wife who cannot keep pace with her husband, and who becomes slothful and unclean and low-minded because she does not realize that to live and move forward she must keep herself physically and mentally clean and fresh. It is the truth. It hits many a woman to-day hard. Women do not like this truth. It bites too deep and so they called it disgusting and immoral. And yet more than 200,000 people have read it. Of this novel it is said: "If the husband reads it he gives it to his wife. If the wife reads it first, she is very likely to hide it from her husband." A woman said of it: "While I was reading it, I stopped one night just after the train wreck. It was so vivid that as I took up my morning paper, the next day, I glanced at the head-lines for news of Murdock's condition, and to find whether the scandal had come out." "Old Wives for New" is a picture of married life—when the blinds are drawn and the servants out of the way, and the husband and wife become their real selves. TheSt. Paul Pioneer Presssays: "It contains things about women that have never seen the light of day before." It might have added: and things about men also. The book teems with good characters, each with a haunting resemblance to ourselves. There are women of respectability and women of the other world, wise men and fools, people that are more good than bad, people that are more bad than good, but nobody that is unhuman enough to be either all good or all bad. The keynote is that of a good story which searches for the truth.Another of the remarkable novels isTHE SECOND GENERATIONIt has been called a problem novel. But it is so only in the sense that every story that lives and breathes and is clothed in flesh and blood presents a problem. You will read this book without laying it down, if you can. And afterward you will think about it for many a day. You will laugh; you will come very near to crying, if you don't quite cry. You will love old Hiram Ranger and Ellen, his wife. You will envy Dory Hargrave his fascinating Adelaide. You will laugh over the soulful Janet, and will sympathize with Arthur Ranger. And as for Madelene—well, you will certainly find her thrilling! And the adventures of all these people will keep you intensely interested. Doctor Schulze must not go without a mention. He is as amusing here as when he appears again in "Old Wives for New," and his advice on medicine and other things may save you some bad health and a deal of money. As its title suggests, the story is a picture of our American life that may be found in any city or any town the country over—the story of the strong, hard-working father, who carved his way through life; and then the story of the next generation—the son and daughter who had apparently no fight to make.
XXX
Returning to the house after full two hours, she burst excitedly in upon Courtney, who was at her easel in the upstairs sitting room. Courtney had by much experimenting found that of her several possible indoor occupations painting was far the best sedative for mind and nerves. The girl's face, exultant with pride, exalted with love, gave her a shock; for, only complete triumph could have so roused those regular, chastely cool features from their wonted repose. She had on impulse sent Helen to Basil in vague hope that they, admirably suited because each needed just what the other had to give, possibly might somehow get a start in the direction of making a match of it. She had the most convincing of reasons for believing that the heart in need of balm is the most susceptible to it. But she did not believe that Basil's heart was, at least latterly, involved; and, as she had not a glimmer of a suspicion of his stolen draughts of "moral tonic," she could not credit the story so clearly written upon those radiant features.
"You don't mean you got him!" she exclaimed, laying her brush on the rest and leaning back. And in her amazement and excitement over this sudden freakish prank of fate, out of her mind flew all the wretched thoughts over which she had been brooding—thoughts centering about her own ugly part in that scene at the laboratory.
Helen, undisturbed by this frankness of woman to woman friend, when there are no listeners, flung ecstatic arms about her and kissed her on either cheek. "I'm so happy!" she cried. "And I owe it all to you."
"Engaged?" inquired Courtney, the utter impossibility of the thing down-facing the clear evidence of its actuality.
Helen held up her left hand, displaying the old-fashioned diamond ring Basil had always worn on his little finger. "It was his mother's," she said, regarding it with an expression in the big brown eyes that would have thrilled him, had he seen. It thrilled Courtney; and no further proof of the absolute passing of Basil was needed than the unalloyed pleasure Helen's happiness gave her. "Engaged," said Helen, softly, dreamily. "And the day set—the second of June."
"Splendid!" Helen, she felt, was secure; for, Basil had the highest respect for his given word.
"And if you hadn't sent me down there, I do believe it'd never have happened. Just think!—though we've loved each other practically from the first meeting. He says it was his feeling about me that started him to struggling against that bad woman. Do you remember——"
"Yes, I remember," said Courtney. How dead it all was!—dead with the death that leaves no scar upon the heart, only a lesson in the memory. How could it ever have seemed living?—and immortal!
"Oh—of course you remember. You knew about her."
"Not much about her," replied Courtney. Pensively, "Really, nothing at all."
"I'm sure I don't want to know anything. The less a good woman knows about evil, the better.... I think recently he must have almost succeeded in breaking away; for, to-day I'm sure he was hesitating at the parting of the ways—whether to go back to her or not. And my coming there decided him. Isn't it beautiful?"
"Like a fairy tale," said Courtney, taking up her brush and eying critically the little landscape to which she was giving the finishing touches. "But, my dear, I don't think you ought to tell me these things."
She felt selfish in saying this; Helen had inexperienced youth's irresistible craving to confide, and was simply bursting with simple and innocent vanity over having achieved the double triumph of both spiritual and worldly advantage. But Helen was not to be suppressed or even discouraged. "Oh, yes," replied she. "He asked me to tell you we are engaged. I think he knows you've heard about that woman who was dragging him down, and thought you could advise me whether he was a fit man for me to marry. You see he feels he's been very bad."
"Men always like to think that," said Courtney. "But as long as they think so, they're not. No, he isn't bad, as men go. He wants to settle down. And he will settle down—with you." She was looking at the landscape but her quizzical eyes were seeing the pair of them a few years hence, contentedly yawning at each other, leading the conventional life of the well-to-do that swathes them body and mind in soft, indolent fat.
Helen had only half listened to Courtney, as she cared as little as the next woman about her lover's past, and knew for herself that he was high-minded and of the noblest instincts. She halted her own and Courtney's musings with an absent, "I feel that way about it, too." She moved nervously about the room, from time to time casting an appealing glance at her absorbed friend. Finally she burst out desperately: "There's something I want your advice about. I don't know whether I've done right or not."
"Yes?" said Courtney, encouragingly.
"I hadn't told you but—the fact is—while I was on that visit to Saint X, I—I became engaged to Will Arbuthnot."
Courtney looked laughingly at her over the suspended brush. "Oh, Helen—Helen!"
"But let me explain, dear," begged Helen, cheeks scarlet and eyes down. "When I went up there—and until just a few minutes ago—I thought—" Her faltering voice died away altogether.
"Thought there was no hope of getting Basil," said Courtney, with no censure, with only sympathy. She resumed touching up the picture to ease Helen's embarrassment. "Go on."
"I thought he was hopelessly in the power of that bad woman. So, I put my feeling for him out of my heart.... I know you're laughing at me. You're so cynical, Courtney. But a girl has got to do the best she can. And it's getting harder and harder for a poor girl to marry—that is, to marry a man with anything. And brought up as I've been I have to have nice surroundings. I want a good home—and—and—children—and they must be educated properly—and able to keep their place in our station of life."
"Certainly," reassured Courtney. "You did the practical, sensible thing."
"I know, what I didseemsto bear out your ideas. You're always teasing me about my ideals being mostly pretense. Well, perhaps they are. It does look like it—doesn't it?"
"Everybody's are," said Courtney, squinting at the picture. "Ideals are paste pearls. One can wear much bigger and finer ones than of the real—and nobody knows they're paste—or need ever know if one's careful to avoid their being tested. I'm glad, dear, you weren't so foolish as you always insisted you'd be."
Helen looked as if her soul were freed of a huge weight. "I will say, Courtney, that I'd never think of confiding in any person who believes like me, while I always feel safe in confiding in you."
"Thank you," said Courtney with genuine gratitude. "You don't know what a flattering compliment that is.... So, you're engaged to Will Arbuthnot?"
"Yes—that is, up at Saint X Will asked me to marry him. He's a nice, clean, thoroughly good fellow. And when Basil went away I supposed he'd gone to that bad——"
"I understand," interrupted Courtney. "Never mind about her."
"I felt I could grow to like Will, and I put Basil out of my heart." There she fluttered a guiltily uneasy glance at Courtney.
"And now," teased Courtney, "you give the naughty man the preference over the nice one."
"That's just it!" exclaimed Helen in triumph. "Basil needs me. I did hesitate—at least, I tried to—until he begged me to strengthen him by saying yes. Then I felt it was clearly my duty." Helen took Courtney's amused nod at her landscape as approval. "And while I hated to do a thing that in a way might seem deceitful—still, Basil has such an exalted opinion of me—and it helps him, to feel that way—and if he had found out that I hadn't loved him all along—or if I'd asked him to wait—I might have lost all chance to help him to be the noble, good man—Don'tsmile that way. Courtney."
And Courtney instantly changed her smile to one of tenderness. "I know you're good and sweet, dear—and beautifully sincere," said she, with perfect honesty; for, experience had left in her little of the familiar self-complacence that condemns human beings for human traits. "Much too good for Basil."
"Of course," said Helen, beaming, "a woman who has kept herself pure is superior to a man who has not been clean and nice."
"Always make Basil feel that," advised Courtney. "He's the kind of man that can behave only when he's on his knees—and you're the kind of woman that prefers worship to love.... I suppose you'll live in the East."
"In New York, I think," replied Helen, reflectively. "He talks of the country. But I've had enough of that. I'm sure he'd be better contented in a city."
Courtney laughed gayly. "What a dear you are!" she exclaimed, looking at her friend tenderly. "And so absolutely unconscious of it."
Helen returned her gaze in unaffected surprise. "I don't know what you mean. Why do you laugh?"
"Nothing." Courtney was painting again. "What are you going to do about Will Arbuthnot?"
"Why, be perfectly honest with him," cried Helen, injured and reproachful. "I simply couldn't be deceitful."
"Tell him you've found you can make a better match? Oh, you mustn't do that."
"I should think not!" exclaimed Helen, horrified. "That wouldn't be the truth. No, I'll tell him I find I don't love him as a woman should love the man she's to give herself to. You know I've got the old-fashioned ideals—that is, ideas—of the sacredness of womanhood. He'll understand."
"Yes," said Courtney gravely, though her eyes were dancing, "he'll have a deeper reverence for true womanhood.... Well, the men deserve it. They're responsible for our not daring to be our natural human selves."
"But Iamnatural, dear," remonstrated Helen warmly.
Courtney was busily trying for a shade of brown on her palette. "You're sure Basil won't hear of your other engagement? Remember, he knows several Saint X people."
"I made an agreement with Will that we'd keep it a secret until we got ready to marry." Courtney laughed again; it was so obvious what lingering longing and hope had prompted this precaution. "Whatareyou laughing atnow?" asked Helen.
"I wouldn't spoil your innocence by telling you," replied Courtney. And she rose and, palette in one hand, brush in the other, kissed her affectionately. "I'm glad you're happy—and I'm sure you'll always be happy."
"Indeed I shall. And he'll be happy too. As he said, he's lived in an atmosphere of deceit and falsehood, and he needs to be lifted up into purity and love and—and—all that makes a good home and life on a high plane."
Courtney was smiling strangely into her color box. "You'll be married in Saint X at Mrs. Torrey's, I suppose?"
Helen began her answer in a place so remote that Courtney, used as she was to the complexities of feminine thought, was completely baffled. Said Helen: "Will Cousin Richard think me disloyal, marrying a man he's at outs with?"
Courtney reflected. "I don't know what he'll think." she said. "But you've got to consider yourself first—and Basil."
"Yes, certainly—" Again Helen was only half listening. "About the wedding," she presently said. "I was thinking it out, while Basil and I were talking——"
"Helen—Helen!" And the small head with its auburn crown shook in mock disapproval. "Not while he was making his first love to you?"
Helen reddened. "I had to think about things. You know, a woman can't afford to let herself loose like a man. And I decided it'd be best for us not to announce the engagement, but just to marry. And not at Saint X. I'll go up to Aunt Lida's in Laporte. What is it, dear? Why do you look so queer?"
"Nothing—nothing." Courtney had no desire—indeed, what would have been the use?—to tell her thoughts as she viewed the swamp of deceit and double dealing into which Helen and Basil were dragging each other in pursuit of those will-o'-the-wisp ideals. Ideals! But Courtney's lip did not curl in scorn as it would have curled a few months before. She had learned that supreme lesson of tolerance—even when you are sure you are right, not to fancy that what is right for you is right for anyone else.
"No," Helen was saying, "I'll not tell Richard. It would annoy him and do no good. Oh, I ought to be ashamed of myself, to be so happy when you are unhappy."
"I—unhappy?"
"I know you conceal it, dear. You're brave and self-reliant. But— Isn't thereanythingI could do to bring you and Dick together again? You're a woman, dear. You simply have to be taken care of, and——"
"Don't shadow your romance with worry about me," said Courtney nervously. She was all confusion and restlessness.
"But I can't help it," pleaded Helen. "I know Richard was neglectful. And he's not an attractive man to a woman, as Basil is—isn't livable and lovable like Basil——"
Helen went on and on contrasting the two men, to Richard's disadvantage at every point. In former days she had been too much "afraid Richard'll find out how foolish I am and how little I know" to get in the least acquainted with him; since the divorce they had talked only constrained commonplaces, when she took Winchie to him. Thus, the comparison was grotesque distortion of Richard. But Courtney was not tempted to try to set her right. Helen, of small mentality and in love with Basil, would not appreciate, would not be convinced, would simply be irritated—would probably misunderstand and be encouraged to pursue her absurd scheme for bringing them together. But parallel with Helen's talk there was in Courtney's mind a juster contrasting of the two men—the one strong, the other weak; the one real, the other idealist; the one simple, the other aposeur; the one intelligent, the other merely conceited; the one master of his emotions, the other their slave; the one an original, the other a pattern, an identical sample of thousands turned out by the "best families" and the "best colleges" and the "best society." And then it came to her why she had estimated Basil quickly and accurately, once she began it—that it was because in Richard she for the first time had a measure to do her measuring with. The mists of his abstraction had completely hid his personality from her, as from everybody. Those mists had blown away in the cyclone of the disruption of their marriage, and he had stood revealed—and Basil also—Basil, the dwarf beside the giant. She could see how the lesser man had made what was, in the circumstances, irresistible appeal to the imperious craving that must be satisfied before the need of heart for sympathy and of mind for comradeship could gain a hearing, the craving that in gaining its ends will compel the imagination to play any necessary sorry trick upon the intelligence. She could see this; and she could also see how sorry the trick upon intelligence had been—how absurd was her dream of founding a life-long content and happiness upon what Basil could give her and she Basil.
"I'm sure," Helen was saying, "with a little management you could get Richard back."
These words fell upon Courtney's ears just as into her mind again came that scene between her and Richard at the laboratory—the childish, the coarse taunts she had hurled at him, and how he had met them. She was hot with the shame of it when Helen spoke. The suggestion that Richard could be got back overwhelmed her with a crushing, stinging sense of how in contempt he must hold her now. The red of her skin flamed up into scarlet. "Don't speak of those things," she commanded harshly. Then, instantly ashamed of this misdirected outburst of temper, she put on her most careless, frivolous air—put it on well enough to deceive Helen. "Let's talk trousseau," said she. "You haven't much time, you know. June's very near."
But Helen was too curious about the trouble that had so abruptly changed a friendship into hatred. "It must have been exciting—that quarrel between them," she hinted encouragingly. "You were there, weren't you?"
"Yes."
"Tell me, Courtney."
"It cured my cold," said Courtney. "I'd been feeling queer in the nose and eyes——"
"Howcanyou be so light!" exclaimed Helen. "Well—let's talk trousseau." She felt that she had done her duty, that it was a waste of time to try to induce Courtney to be serious— "Sheneverwill have any sense of responsibility—or of the graver side of life." And with a clear conscience she took up trousseau and thought and talked dress steadily the rest of the afternoon, straight through until the supper gong sounded. And she asked so many questions, so much minute advice about every little detail that Courtney's attention could not wander.
At supper Courtney got a real pleasure from Helen's rapt, tenderly smiling countenance—they could not talk before Lizzie as the engagement was to be kept secret. Also, she got pleasure mingled with amusement out of Helen's delightful swift assumption of the ways of a married woman, and out of her immense satisfaction—as shown in a certain sweet and loving condescension to Courtney—over Basil's superiority as a catch. Helen was in fancy already married and installed in grandeur. But after supper, when Helen went up to write her first love letter—(those to Will Arbuthnot didn't count)—Courtney made no attempt to save herself from the attack of the blues that had been threatening ever since she calmed sufficiently to recall what she had said to Dick at the laboratory. She sat at the piano playing softly. Helen's face was haunting her—that expression telling of dreams she understood so well—so well! Would Helen's dream fade too? Probably—yes, certainly—for, the Helen sort of woman soon discouraged love in a man, and the Basil sort of man looked askance at love as tainted of that devil whom no one believed in any more yet everyone feared. Fade—wither—die. And she herself—would she seek on and on, deceived always by hopes and longings—as she had been twice already—the second time worse deceived than the first——
Into her thoughts came an image of Richard. The image grew stronger. Very gradually she realized that he was actually before her, was the tall figure in the doorway of the sitting room——
"I didn't dare interrupt," he said. "It would have been like disturbing a funeral."
"Not quite so bad as that," replied she with an attempt to smile. Though her rose-bronze coloring enabled her to blush deeply without detection, had the corner where she was sitting been less dim he must have seen into what shamefaced confusion his coming threw her.
She went on playing; he seated himself at some distance from her to gaze into the fire and smoke. She was on the grill of humiliating thoughts about herself—what she had said and done that afternoon. She did not lift her eyes until she had made sure by several furtive glances that she could look at him in safety. She watched him—the cigarette gracefully between the long first and second fingers of his hand of the aristocrat and the artist—the poise of his curiously long head so well proportioned—the long, sensitive, mobile features—that indescribable look which proclaims at a glance the man of high intelligence—the man of the finely organized nervous system. Then she observed that he was in evening half dress—one more reason for his looking unusually handsome and distinguished. But all the time she was seeing those two expressions which had transformed him that afternoon—had transformed him and had made her feel mean and poor beside him. A man who could be such a wild hot blast of primeval passion; the man who could be stronger than passion, even such passion—there was indeed a man! And what must he think of her! "But no worse than I deserve."
To break the current of her own thoughts, she interrupted his with a trivial "You are dressed this evening."
"Because I've come to call," he replied, rousing himself from his reverie.
"I'll tell Helen."
"I want to talk to you—if you'll listen." She stopped the soft wandering of her fingers over the keys. "No, go on playing, please."
She resumed. Now her eyes were on the keyboard, and she was having no easy task of it finding the right keys and striking the right chords, all the time conscious of his steady penetrating gaze. "It's nearing the time you fixed for going East," he began.
She nodded slowly in time to the music. He was so seated that the piano prevented his seeing any of her but her bare shoulders and graceful head with its masses of auburn hair, against a background of palms and ferns. "I'm glad the spring is so backward this year," she said; for, she had learned not to fear his misunderstanding, if she spoke out her thoughts. "If it were really spring with the grounds all in bloom and the windows wide— It makes me sad to think of that."
She had thought she might perhaps soften his contempt by reminding him that there was another and a less repellant side to her character. But as soon as the words were out, she wished she had not spoken; it was useless to try to make him think well of her. He was probably regretting that he had let her have Winchie. She looked appealingly toward him, hoping he would speak—say anything—no matter what, so long as it broke that silence of painful suspense. When she could endure it no longer, she suddenly burst out: "You've come to ask me to leave at once. You are right, I'll go as soon as I can pack."
"On the contrary," said he, eyes still intent upon the tall shafts of flame leaping toward the cavernous blackness of the chimney. "I've come to ask you not to go at all."
His tone was calm and self-controlled. It contained no suggestion of ominous meaning; nor did his face.
"I—I don't understand," she ventured, nervously.
"I want to propose," explained he, in the same deliberate way, "that we give each other another trial."
There was no mistaking his meaning. In the sudden reversal from all she had been expecting and fearing, her thoughts became mere chaos. Hands resting upon the keys, she sat silent, rigid—waiting.
He turned his chair, leaned toward her, his elbows on his knees. "Is the idea—is it—distasteful to you?" he asked.
Carefully, with her tapering fingers she measured chords without striking them. "Notdistasteful," said she.
"You do not dislike me—now?"
"I never have, except for a few minutes now and then—when you said or did tyrannical things." Painfully embarrassed, she was trying to regain control of herself under cover of arranging the chiffon round the edge of the bosom of her dress.
"Courtney, I'm a different man from what I was."
"Yes," she assented, without reserve. "Very different. But——"
"Don't, please," he said, before she could begin to explain. "When you've heard my reasons for asking you to stay, you may think well of them. If not, why you at least can refuse more intelligently. This afternoon, when Gallatin was down at the laboratory making an ass of himself, you whirled upon me with some very vivid reminders of what you had been to him."
"I was insane with rage—not that it wasn't all true—only—I—it was—" She hung her head—"Oh, I'm so ashamed!—so ashamed!" she cried.
"I'm glad you did," interrupted he, heartily. "You thought to infuriate me. And you did, for a moment. Then—I was astonished to find myself quite calm. Do you know why?"
"Yes. Because you care nothing about me."
"Because I care nothing about him. Because I know you've ceased to think you care about him—care, you never did. Since I've come to my senses, I've been getting acquainted with you. And I know you do not and never did and never could love Basil Gallatin. That is, the woman you are now—the only one that interests either of us—never did and never could."
The deep green eyes glanced gratefully toward him. "That's true."
"It was simply what you and I went through with when we first met—and became engaged—and got married."
"Yes," said she. "Much the same. But—" Her eyes met his fully. "It wouldn't be honest if I didn't say too that I do not regret—about him. I suppose there's something wrong with me, but somehow I don't seem able to regret anything I do—even the things I'm ashamed of—like what I said this afternoon. It all seems part of experience. It seems necessary. That experience with him—it helped me toward learning to live."
She expected that he would be offended by her frankness. But he was not. "It helped you toward learning to live," he assented, like one stating an indisputable truth. "And it helped me. No, more than that. Ittaughtme.... I wish the lesson could have been got in some—some other way. Perhaps you do, too." She nodded, gazing thoughtfully across the piano into the fire. "But," he went on, "fate doesn't let us choose our way—or, perhaps, there's no nice, refined way of getting one's full growth, any more than there is for a tree. It's simply got to stand outdoors in all weathers, and learn to survive and grow strong, no matter what comes."
"And the things that seem to hinder, often help most—and those that look like helps are enemies."
She saw his understanding, appreciative look, though her eyes were gazing past him; and she liked it. "We've both learned," said he. "And we've both been put in the way of learning more. Now why shouldn't you and I use our experience to the best advantage?"
"I intend to try," said she.
"Then it's simply a question of what is the best advantage. Isn't it for us both to stay on here?"
"I don't think so," was her slow reply. "Not for either of us."
"But you'll listen to my reasons? Really listen, I mean. You know, you caught my bad habit of not listening."
"Yes," she said with a forced, uneasy smile. "I'll listen."
"Well—first, there's this place. You like it, don't you? You must, since you made it. I've found that out, too."
"I love it," she answered. "But—" She shook her head.
"Now, do try to be patient with me. You must consider all three of my reasons together. That was only number one. Number two is Winchie."
She searched his face with swift terrified eyes. He smiled a frank and winning reassurance that instantly convinced her. "Please put that kind of thoughts about me out of your mind forever," he urged. "I've learned my lesson—that the beginning of fear is the end of trust. The boy's yours. You've got the right to him; he's got the right to you. Even if I could do for him, it'd be my duty— But I didn't come here this evening to talk about duty. That's a rotten hypocrisy."
"Is this Richard Vaughan?" she cried laughingly.
"The same—minus his grandfather," replied he, eyes and voice echoing her laugh. "No more duty for me. When anybody talks about doing his duty, he'd better be watched. If he boasts of having done his duty he'd better be locked up while they find out what mischief he's been at. No, I'm out for honest, selfish inclination only. That brings me to my third reason. I want you to stay. But—for very selfish sensible reasons I want you to want to stay. I've gotten acquainted with you. I need you. There's nobody who could take your place."
She smiled at what seemed to her the extravagant kindness of this.
"I mean just that," he went on. It wasn't the words he was saying; it never is a matter of words. It was the way he said it—the force behind the words, like the force behind the projectile. "I need you. Don't you think you could learn to need me? A man needs a woman. A woman needs a man. We've never given each other a fair trial. Why shouldn't we? Now that you've taught me, I don't want you to abandon me. And why should you begin all over again with another man?"
She sat motionless, hardly breathing, it seemed, from the stillness of her bosom. He waited long but no answer came. He went to the big old-fashioned chimneypiece, stood with his back to the logs; a look of somberness came into his face. "Well," he said, "I've said my say." There was silence in the room. He drew a long breath. "What do you think?"
She lifted her head. With flushed face and reproachful, almost resentful eyes she cried: "You've no right to come at me that way. You make it hard for me to do as I wish."
"You wish to go? Then it's settled." He turned his face to the fire, and she could not see it. "We'll not speak of this again." His voice seemed natural; but there must have been some subtle quality in it that set her nerves to vibrating.
"And you," she cried, "are thinking 'How mean and ungrateful she is—after my generosity to refuse to——'"
"Not so!" he protested sharply, wheeling round. "I've not been generous. When I told you the fault was chiefly mine, I meant it."
"When a man treats a woman as if she were a human being, it's generosity, as the world goes," insisted she. And then the words began to pour from her as if they had suddenly found an outlet. "You make me feel small and mean in refusing. Oh, I'm grateful for the way you've treated me—but I hate myself for being grateful—and I'm ashamed that it is hateful. But I can't be different. Your generosity—your forgiveness hurt my pride. They make me feel I'm your inferior—and I am. But I mustn't stay where I'd feel humble. You make me ashamed to go, but I know I've the right to go—and that I ought to go. I must!"
"Then—you are going," was his unhesitating reply. "I don't want you to stay. I see you don't believe me—don't understand me—and no wonder. It'd be useless to try again, unless we were both determined with all our hearts to make a success if success was at all possible."
"And it couldn't be a success," said she, a touching melancholy in her voice, in her deep, mysterious eyes. "For, a man doesn't want an equal woman but a dependent—wants his woman to be like his dog. Oh, what a world it is!—where everybody cants about self-respect, and everybody prefers cringers to friends, fear to love!"
"Not I," said Vaughan, in the quiet forceful manner that fitted so well his air of reserve power, of strength without strenuosity. "And that's why I want you. Courtney, don't you see that you're free and independent here, now? Don't you see it'd be a waste of time, a waste of energy, for you to go away? You may not need me, but I need you—in every way. You can get along without me. But how can I get along without you? Where would I find a woman who could take your place?"
Her bosom was rising and falling stormily. Her eyes wandered, as if she were desperately seeking a way of escape and had scant hope of finding it.
"Can't you give 'us' another trial?" he asked, with proud humility.
"I cannot," she cried, starting up in her agitation. "I cannot! I must go. There's everything here but the one thing I must have—what you never could give me, after all that's happened—and then, there's what I said to you this afternoon. We never could look at each other without my feeling that you— Oh, let's not talk about it. I must go—I must! I cannot live without love—equal love. I must seek until I find it—find some one who needs me—all of me—all I have to give—and must give."
He left the hearth and faced her with the length of the piano between them. "Could you love me?" he asked.
His voice set to vibrating nerves she had thought would never again respond to him. She trembled, and her eyes sank. "Even if I could—you couldn't love me. You could forgive—could be generous and kind. But you couldn't love."
"But I do love you," he said. And she, looking at him in wonder, thought there had never shone eyes so near to being the very soul itself. "I began to love you when you sent Gallatin away and faced me alone and did not lie. I came back because— You were like the air to me, Courtney. One isn't conscious of the air unless he hasn't it, and can't breathe. I've loved you more and more, day by day, ever since. And I shall love you more and more—need you more and more—every day until I die. Courtney—can't you forgive me? I am sorry for what I did—and—I love you."
She sank upon the piano seat, flung her slim white arms along the keyboard, buried her face in them. "I've found it!" she sobbed. "I've found it!"
Several discoveries in chemistry give Richard Vaughan fame, and Courtney shares it. But they value it all at nothing beside the discovery which gives them happiness: That the wise make of their mistakes a ladder, the foolish a grave.
THE END
* * * * * * * *
OTHER BOOKS BY
DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS
Mr. Phillips does not follow the usual fashion in novels. He has a fashion of his own. His readers are now numbered by the scores of thousands. In at least one of our cities, at the public library where they take ten copies of each of Mr. Phillips's new books, there is usually a waiting-listfive to seven monthslong for a chance at it, which shows one of two things, or perhaps both: to how much trouble some people will go to save the trifling expenditure of the price of a book, or how extremely popular Mr. Phillips is—so popular that he has a multitude of eager readers among those who cannot afford to buy books.
It is no small triumph to win all kinds of readers, as Mr. Phillips has. The reason he has achieved it is because he writes about life as we live it ourselves, in our hearts and in our homes and in our dealings with each other—the familiar yet startling and always fascinating truth about life.
Mr. Phillips is an Indiana man in the early forties. He graduated from De Pauw University and then from Princeton. He has had a career giving him unusual opportunities to observe the life of all kinds of people, high and low, rich and poor, town and country, here and abroad. As he watched the struggle of humanity to live—the concealment and subterfuge, the extraordinary mixture of good and bad in everyone—all the conflict in the jungle which we call life impressed itself on him, and he gradually found that fiction—the novel—was presenting to him the best medium for him to express to everyone what he had found in his work so far. The result has been that in the last few years Mr. Phillips has gathered together an audience of thousands, who watch each book as it appears. It is interesting to see what he has produced.
Mr. Phillips's novel just preceding the present work is
The Fashionable Adventures of
JOSHUA CRAIG
Concerning this story, the LondonTimessaid: "Until the modern Balzac actually arrives, perhaps Mr. David Graham Phillips may be permitted to fill the gap"; and of the hero it said: "Joshua Craig, a Lincoln adapted for the use of latter-day Americans."
It is the story of a strong, virile personality set among the frothy superficialities of society life in Washington. Joshua Craig, a young Western lawyer, is striving to make a name for himself in national politics, and carries everything before him by his cyclonic forcefulness. In spite of his bourgeois birth, he tears down the barriers of society, and his utter disregard of conventionalities makes him the sensation of the season. And yet, for all his frank contempt of the methods of Aristocracy, their plots and littleness, he finds among them one "woman," Margaret Severance. He lays siege to her with all his impulsiveness and the assurance of success, and makes her own honest self do battle with the scheming smallnesses of her aristocratic bringing up. He carries her away with a masterfulness that is characteristic of him, and marries her before she can get her breath. Big and rough and crude, repelling and yet compelling, he fights for the supremacy of his fundamental ideas, and step by step the "lady" in her gives way to the "woman," always struggling, always battling. She finally yields to his will—to become the quiescent wife of a candidate for governor.
Just preceding this book, Mr. Phillips published
OLD WIVES FOR NEW
Many, many critics have called this novel immoral and gross. It is not so. It tells the naked truth—not brutally, but frankly. It is not romance. It is real life. It deals with a wife who cannot keep pace with her husband, and who becomes slothful and unclean and low-minded because she does not realize that to live and move forward she must keep herself physically and mentally clean and fresh. It is the truth. It hits many a woman to-day hard. Women do not like this truth. It bites too deep and so they called it disgusting and immoral. And yet more than 200,000 people have read it. Of this novel it is said: "If the husband reads it he gives it to his wife. If the wife reads it first, she is very likely to hide it from her husband." A woman said of it: "While I was reading it, I stopped one night just after the train wreck. It was so vivid that as I took up my morning paper, the next day, I glanced at the head-lines for news of Murdock's condition, and to find whether the scandal had come out." "Old Wives for New" is a picture of married life—when the blinds are drawn and the servants out of the way, and the husband and wife become their real selves. TheSt. Paul Pioneer Presssays: "It contains things about women that have never seen the light of day before." It might have added: and things about men also. The book teems with good characters, each with a haunting resemblance to ourselves. There are women of respectability and women of the other world, wise men and fools, people that are more good than bad, people that are more bad than good, but nobody that is unhuman enough to be either all good or all bad. The keynote is that of a good story which searches for the truth.
Another of the remarkable novels is
THE SECOND GENERATION
It has been called a problem novel. But it is so only in the sense that every story that lives and breathes and is clothed in flesh and blood presents a problem. You will read this book without laying it down, if you can. And afterward you will think about it for many a day. You will laugh; you will come very near to crying, if you don't quite cry. You will love old Hiram Ranger and Ellen, his wife. You will envy Dory Hargrave his fascinating Adelaide. You will laugh over the soulful Janet, and will sympathize with Arthur Ranger. And as for Madelene—well, you will certainly find her thrilling! And the adventures of all these people will keep you intensely interested. Doctor Schulze must not go without a mention. He is as amusing here as when he appears again in "Old Wives for New," and his advice on medicine and other things may save you some bad health and a deal of money. As its title suggests, the story is a picture of our American life that may be found in any city or any town the country over—the story of the strong, hard-working father, who carved his way through life; and then the story of the next generation—the son and daughter who had apparently no fight to make.