MUTUAL DISLIKE.
All day Lawrence worked, and when night came he had hollowed out a piece
of log to a depth of some eighteen inches, leaving six inches of solid
wood in the bottom. Both were very well pleased with the result. With
the coming of darkness, he gathered more berries, and heated water in
his log kettle. They were able to cook the mushrooms and to bind her
ankle in moss soaked in hot water. The building of a shelter was
discussed, but both decided to resume their journey on the following
day, so they slept again in the heavy moss.
In the morning, Claire was glad indeed of the hot water, for it warmed
her, and her ankle felt much better. They decided to follow the little
stream which would doubtless wind its way somehow around the present
ridge back to the ocean. Accordingly, they kept down the ravine, which
cut across the ridge in a southerly direction.
For the whole of that day and the next they followed the stream, which
grew to a small creek. At noon of the third day they dropped suddenly
down a steep slope to find themselves at the juncture of their stream,
with a river which flowed through a deep gorge out to the ocean. They
determined to follow it up toward its head.
"Somewhere inland must be a town," argued Claire. "At any rate, it's the
only way we can go."
After living for four days on berries, they were beginning to feel
acutely the need of other food, but they discussed the problem at length
without arriving at any feasible solution. Two days later fortune
temporarily relieved their difficulty.
They were following along the side of a steep ridge overlooking the
river, when Claire suddenly stopped him and gave a cry of delight. Near
them a small, furry animal, caught in a tangled mass of wirelike
creepers, was struggling to free itself. He killed the creature with his
stone-edged tool, and after barbecuing it on the end of a stick, they
ate it ravenously. Each of them would have disliked the whole scene at
any other time, but now neither thought anything of it until after they
were satisfied.
Leaning back against a rock, Lawrence stroked his chin, rapidly becoming
invisible under a heavy beard. "I hadn't known I was so hungry for real
food," he laughed.
Brown as a gipsy, her hair filled with tiny green leaves, Claire looked
at him, her eyes shining with the warm light of satisfied hunger. "We
ate like two beasts," she remarked languidly, and laughed. "It was
simply disgraceful."
"I know," he began to muse, "it doesn't take long for the most polished
man--not that I ever was that--to become a savage."
"You look the part," she laughed. "I suppose I do, too. My hair is
matted hopelessly; the curliness makes it worse. My face, too, is
rapidly hardening under this sun. If only I had a few more clothes--"
She stopped and looked at him. "I feel the need of them," she finished
lamely.
Claire had worn his coat continuously from the first night, and his
undershirt was tearing from contact with bush and tree. He grinned
contentedly, however.
"If you approach nakedness as rapidly as I," he chuckled, "I fear we
both will have to avoid civilization. Undisguised humanity isn't
tolerated there."
She flushed warmly, then laughed.
"I wonder why people are so afraid of being seen," Lawrence went on. "Of
course, there's the warmth and natural protection of clothing, but one
would feel so much freer without the encumbrance of shirt-stud and
feathered plume."
"We need them to complete a personality," said Claire. "I know few
people who would inspire respect in their elemental state. Stripped of
advertising silk and diamond, they wouldn't be so suggestive of
wealth."
"But why be so eager to impress others with your power?"
She turned toward him with a faint smile. "If you didn't ask that as
mere conversation, I would think you childish. You know very well why.
It probably goes back to the days when the possession of a fish-hook,
more or less, meant surer life. It has come to mean, now, that the
decoration of an extra feather or white flannel trousers means
advantageous position, the place of more power, more pleasure; in short,
greater fulness of living."
"But we are living fully, goodness knows," he interrupted. "This last
week we have had to exert our wits and bodies in more ways than we ever
did before in all our lives. True, I do miss my modeling somewhat." He
spoke the last with a soft mellowness in his voice and a wistfulness
that made her look at him quickly.
"Modeling?" she asked.
He nodded slowly.
"What sort of modeling?" she insisted.
"Oh, probably poor, for the most part. I did some work that was
beginning to make its way, though."
"You mean sculpture?"
He nodded again.
She looked at him earnestly. Here was a new revelation. She had wondered
at this man's apparent keen sense of form, and his imaginative power
when he spoke of color or mentioned line, and she had been sure from his
occasional word that he was a wide student of literature.
"What did you do at home?" she asked abruptly.
"Oh, played with living," he said indifferently.
She felt irritated that he would not tell her more of his life, yet she
remembered that she had practically refused to discuss her own with him.
"See here, Lawrence," she said suddenly, "we aren't quite fair with each
other, are we?"
"Why not?" he answered quietly. "I carry you toward your old life, you
guide me toward mine. It's a fair business, with equal investment. I'm
not complaining."
She was silent and watched him as he lay on his back, dreaming of days
at home with his work. As he lay there, she studied his hands. They
were practically healed, and she noticed they were well-shaped, the
fingers long and tapering, yet with an appearance of unusual strength.
She knew already that they were sensitive; when he had cut out a piece
of wood to heat water in, she had seen that. So they were sculptor's
hands. What a revelation, and what a pity that he was blind! She fell to
wondering if he really was good at his work, or whether he merely
fancied he was and hewed away without real artistry, deceived by his
blindness. She studied his face in repose. Then her mind came back to
his hands, and she felt a sudden sense of displeasure, a little chagrin,
and some wonder, accompanied by the feeling that she wished he had not
carried her. She did not quite know why, yet the dependence on him made
her restless. Suddenly she wondered poignantly what he thought of her.
The more she wondered, the more she wanted to know, and at last she
ventured, "Are you asleep?"
"No, dreaming."
"Lawrence."
"What is it?" He sat up and waited.
"What do you think of me?" She was surprised to find herself waiting
eagerly for his answer.
He laughed outright, a gay, hearty laugh.
"Claire," he said merrily, "you embarrass me dreadfully. You see, I
haven't thought much about you. However, if you like, I'll study you for
a week and report."
Hot anger surged up in her. "You needn't bother," she said dryly. "Our
lives are so utterly different in every phase that nothing could be
gained."
He lay back carelessly. "So I had decided," he replied, and lapsed into
silence again.
She could have cried with vexation. For the first time in her life
Claire was utterly humiliated, and there grew within her an aggressive
dislike for this man, a determination to make him feel her power and to
punish him for his indifference. She did not want him to love her, by
any means, but he had never even shown her the courteous deference, the
admiration or regard that she was accustomed to receive from men. Her
mind went back over the past week, and she grew more humiliated, more
angry. Tears of vexation came to her eyes, but she brushed them away
fiercely.
"Shall we take the remains of our meat and move on toward the habitats
of men?" said Lawrence, sitting up.
She controlled herself to answer, "As you please."
He stooped to lift her into his arms. She flushed warm as his hands
slipped under her, and he straightened up. She hesitated, and wanted not
to do it, but realized the necessity, and put her arm around his neck.
"I shall be grateful when I can walk," was her comment.
"It will make our progress more rapid," he agreed, and she was angry
again. She knew that he thought only in terms of the most efficient
means of getting ahead. A longing possessed her to make him realize that
he was physically distasteful to her.
"We are so vastly different," she said, "it is disagreeable to be
carried this way."
Lawrence flushed, and she was pleased. At least he understood now.
"Of course," he admitted calmly, "it isn't pleasant, but I suppose one
must make the best of a bad bargain."
There was silence for a while, then he said suddenly, "I think I
realize, Claire, that a blind man is at best a poor companion for a
woman who is accustomed to being amused, and whose interests are those
of the society glow-worm."
Claire resented the picture, but she kept her voice steady. "Surely at
home you had your own social group," she said pleasantly.
"Of a sort, yes. We were all workers, not going in much for form,
entertainment, and that sort of thing. We generally sat in the gallery
at the opera, and did mostly as we pleased everywhere. None of us were
rolling in wealth. We worked for the love of it, and looked to the
future for pay."
"I see." She was thinking fast. "You were struggling young artists." Her
voice was sugar-coated.
"We were struggling young artizans," he answered, seemingly indifferent
to her irony.
As he made slower progress when he talked, she did not attempt to carry
on the conversation. The stops for rest were gradually lengthening out,
and he was getting hard and wiry so that his endurance was greater. He
was quicker at catching himself when he stumbled, and he did not puff so
hard between grades. Claire felt the easier swing of his body when he
walked, and noticed that he was growing surer of foot and more graceful
in movement, and she realized that except for his eyes he was a splendid
specimen of manhood. She now admitted all these things to herself, but
they only added to her feeling against him. She wondered if he had been
as indifferent to all women as he was to her, and was displeased that
she wondered.
Suddenly Lawrence stopped and put her down by his side. Claire looked up
at him and saw his forehead gathering in a frown.
"What is it?" she asked anxiously.
"You are letting your thoughts obstruct your eyes," he said simply. "I
have walked into three boulders without your knowing it."
"I am sorry," she said earnestly. "It was silly of me."
He laughed and sat down. "You see, as eyes you can't afford to think. At
other times perhaps I, too, should wander into abstractions, but at
present it won't work."
"I know it," she admitted contritely. "I won't repeat it."
"What," he asked, "is the subject of all this meditation?"
She blushed, and her eyes darkened. She wondered whether she should tell
the truth, started to do so, then changed her mind. "I was asking myself
what my husband was probably doing and thinking."
"Poor fellow!" Lawrence was sincerely thoughtful. "I can imagine what it
must be to him, supposing you lost at sea. Yes, he must be suffering
badly. I don't believe I would change places with him."
Claire started at Lawrence. "Are you flattering me?" she asked coldly.
"Not at all," he replied. "I am merely stating the truth. I have an
imagination, my dear lady. I can quite grasp your husband's position.
You would certainly be a loss to a man who loved you, and I shouldn't
care to be that man."
"Shouldn't you?" she said instinctively, and bit her lip for saying it.
"Not under the circumstances," answered Lawrence. "I never did fancy the
idea of death visiting my loved ones. I have never got over its having
done so."
"Oh"--her voice softened--"then you have lost your--" She waited.
"I am an orphan," he said bruskly.
She was ashamed of her relief. How ridiculous it was to have imagined
him, even for an instant, as a married man! He was so cold, so
impersonal; of course, he had never married, and never would. Well, that
was best; a blind man had no right to marry. He owed it to himself and
to any woman not to place her in the position of caring for him,
handicapped as he was, and so unable to give her the companionship, the
comradeship a woman deserved. She could see how he would treat a wife:
feed her well, clothe her, care for her comfort, and talk to her if she
desired, but he would never be tender, loving, sympathetic, or
understanding. No, he could not be; he was too self-centered, too much
the artist. That last seemed to her a correct estimate of him, and she
settled her mind on it as being final.
"So you are alone in the world?" Claire said, renewing the conversation.
"Quite," answered Lawrence. "I am as free from family hindrances as a
young wolf that runs his first season's hunt alone."
She thought how apt a comparison he had made. "So you regard the family
as a hindrance?"
"Oh--no and yes. One can never do quite as he pleases while a family and
its wishes, aims, and loves are concerned. They always hold him down to
some extent. He is an equal hindrance to them. They love each other, and
as a result they have to sacrifice their individual wishes. But the
family keeps man more social, more gregarious, and less selfish. If we
were as free from family love as is the wolf I mentioned, we would be
able to live our lives more completely, and, on the other hand, we would
die in greater numbers. The love of man and woman for each other and
their children lifts humanity out of its serfdom, but it also places
limitations. You ought to know more about that than I, however," he
laughed. "I merely theorize."
"So I noticed," Claire observed. "One can easily gather that you aren't
experienced."
"No. My parents died when I was small. I had to work my way through
school. The accident made it somewhat harder, but I got along." He was
plainly matter of fact.
"Oh!" She exclaimed at his words more forcefully than she had intended.
He smiled a little, comprehendingly. "Yes, it explains a lot, doesn't
it?" He spoke carelessly. "You doubtless can now understand my lack of
social grace."
She thought to deny it, but that seemed foolish. He was silent, and
there seemed little use in talking. Claire knew she understood him well
enough.