THE UNHORSING OF A KNIGHT ERRANT.
Between men and women who have established what they believe to be an
unemotional friendship there nearly always springs up a relation
franker than any which is otherwise possible. Such was the experience
of Philip and Claire during the days that followed. They took many walks
together, and their conversation grew daily more exclusive and more
personal.
Lawrence, through ignorance of their situation and jealousy of Philip,
grew daily more dissatisfied. He would hear the intimate ring in their
voices and writhe within. The artist felt keenly that he was being set
aside, and his eager determination to live and be in the front rank of
warring manhood made him determine to win Claire against this man who,
it seemed to him, was taking her from him by mere advantage of sight. He
felt that they were shelving him as a blind man, a very nice fellow, but
quite outside the possibility of any relation with their real lives. He
now thought that Claire was kind to him as one is to those whose
situation makes them objects of pity.
There were days when he sat alone before the fire in the cabin brooding
until he was filled with savage hatred of Philip. He would think of all
sorts of impossible means of eliminating this Spaniard from Claire's
life; then Philip would come in, talk to him, seem so very normally
friendly as man to man, that his reason mastered his fancies and he
laughed at himself. He ridiculed his own thoughts with an irony that
inwardly grew in bitterness with his growing love for Claire, and he
would end by admitting that Philip was only doing what he himself would
like to do.
In his fair-minded moments he did not blame his friend. "I should be a
fool to expect him to act differently," he told himself. "In this
struggle for meat and mate which we all wage, he is doing what any one
would do. I who am losing must at least be just to him." He resolved to
be just, and in a little while was again ensnaring himself in his own
notions. "She is throwing herself away upon this Spaniard," he thought,
"while I sit by. If I were not blind, she would see that after all I am
the better man. I put all my power into the carving of that little
statue, and she knows it is good, better than anything he has done or
can do, and yet--she loves him."
He would rise and walk the floor in his tension, knocking into the
chairs recklessly. His thoughts would gain speed from his bodily
movement, and soon he would rage against the man whose guest he was,
against Claire, against life, fate, and blindness. Then suddenly his
ever self-questioning mind would demand of him, "Why are you doing
nothing, then?" He did nothing because he could do nothing. That was
his answer, no sooner made than contradicted, no sooner contradicted
than to be restated, "I do nothing because I will do nothing."
Several times he refused to go with them on tramps or skiing trips. When
they were gone he would revile himself for his stubbornness and ache
because Claire could not see that he had refused with a petulant boy's
hope that she would stay with him. "Why should she stay with me?" There
was no reason, he told himself, and again he would be off on a mental
whirlwind that carried him still farther from reason. He became
perpetually sullen, irritable, and discontented. He realized it, thought
that Claire would certainly grow to dislike him if he continued so
disagreeable, and with the thought became even more disagreeable.
Claire, however, was not growing to dislike him. She avoided him in
pursuance of her settled policy, but she thought of him all the more.
One morning when she and Philip were out in the pines together, she
observed, casually, "Lawrence doesn't seem to be doing any work these
days."
Philip glanced at her carelessly. "Yes. I'm very sorry for the poor
fellow."
His pity angered her a little. Lawrence did not need his sympathy. "I
think he must be feeling badly," she replied.
"I believe he is moody by nature."
"Oh, do you? I hadn't thought so," she objected.
"It is not strange," Philip went on; "he is so limited by his blindness
and so ambitious that the effect is almost sure to be a disgruntled
mind. He cannot hope to overcome his blindness, and he ought to realize
it. I think that is the cause of his odd philosophy. He certainly would
be happier if he could get a more sunlit view of things. He needs
optimism, and he ought to practise it."
For a moment, Claire was silent. She was not willing to admit that
Lawrence was unable to conquer blindness or even that his beliefs were
altogether wrong. She had more often disagreed with him than not, but
now for some reason she found herself desiring to support his
convictions.
"I don't agree with you," she answered Philip, a little shortly.
"Well then, what is my lady's diagnosis?" He had not noticed her curt
reply, for he was thinking of something else and was not really
interested in Lawrence as a topic of conversation.
Claire was unable to answer; she disliked both his tone and his
expression, but she had nothing to substitute for his explanation.
They walked on in silence for a few minutes through the trees before she
ventured a little lamely, "I don't know what to say."
Philip looked up, smilingly. "To say about what, Claire?" Then he
remembered, and continued hastily, "Oh, pardon me. I know, of course.
About Lawrence. If I could suggest anything to do, I would. He is an
interesting friend, but I have nothing to offer. It seems to me that we
can do no more than to let him alone. He will work it out for himself.
If he does not, we cannot help. He would not expect us to do so."
"That's no reason we shouldn't try," she flashed, "unless, of course,
you quite agree with his argument after all."
Philip colored slightly and said, "I admit the fault, Claire, but what
can we do?"
"Couldn't you get him to tell what's the matter?" she asked, groping for
something to say.
"No more than you could. Perhaps even less easily. You know him better
than I and understand him better."
She laughed, a little satisfaction warming her at his words. "Sometimes
I think I understand him, sometimes I know I don't. As he himself would
say, it is merely a matter of blind psychology, is it not?"
"It is not," she answered positively. "It's more a matter of artist
psychology, I think."
"Perhaps," he admitted; "certainly the combination is difficult."
"I do wish we could do something for him."
"He would be better off if he would come out with us, but since he will
not, he will not." Philip's tone showed clearly that he was inclined to
let the matter drop.
But not so Claire. "You are willing to help me, aren't you, Philip?"
"Why yes, if there is any way in which I can be of service."
"We might stay and talk with him more."
"That is useless, I fear," he said abruptly, his own wishes revolting
against sacrificing his companionship with Claire or against sharing it
with Lawrence.
"He was unhesitating in his care for me those days we wandered," she
remarked simply.
"Pardon me again. I forgot for the time that you owed him anything."
"He doesn't consider that I owe him anything. It's simply that I want
him to be as happy as possible shut up here with us away from his own
kind of life."
"Oh!" Philip looked at her thoughtfully. "Do you think he could be
happier with other people?"
"I'm afraid so," she answered, a little regretfully.
Philip's eyes searched her face. "I should think you could satisfy any
one's need for companionship," he said, quietly.
"Don't flatter, Philip. That was a very silly speech."
"Was it? It was not flattery at any rate. It is my feeling about you."
"Please," she said, stopping, "let's not go into that again."
"Very well, but why cannot my lady extend her charity? There are other
unfortunates besides Lawrence who have troubles to face."
"Oh, Philip, you really haven't any troubles. You merely imagine you
have."
He laughed, a little bitterly. "I suppose a life's happiness is a small
thing."
"It isn't, Philip," she protested. "But you can get out and tramp and
trap and see things, and, after all, you don't really love me as you
thought you did. We've settled all that."
"I know we have," he agreed. "That is, you have."
She looked him over, angrily. "So this is the outcome! I ask you to
think of another person who needs our care, and you disregard him for
your own little troubles!"
Philip looked down and flushed crimson. "Well, it does seem as if I
were selfish. I am afraid I am. But I do not mean to be. I can talk to
him if you wish."
"You needn't," she said, angered still more. "It isn't charity I'm
asking you to bestow on him. He doesn't need that, and you ought to know
it."
She had laid more emphasis than she intended on the word "he," and
Philip's face darkened.
"I see," he said coldly. "It is I after all to whom you are charitable.
Thank you."
Tears of vexation came to Claire's eyes. "Oh, I do wish you'd be
reasonable," she said, half angrily, half pleadingly. "Don't you
understand that I am giving you more frank friendship than ever I gave
any man in my life? Isn't that of any value to you? Don't you realize
how unfair you have been to Lawrence?"
His face grew suddenly white, as he said, "Do you love him, Claire?"
She did not look away from him. "If I did, would it concern you?"
He took one step toward her, then stopped.
"Yes, it would," he answered.
Her anger almost mastered her, but she controlled herself.
"Philip, are we two irrational animals going to spoil everything? I had
hoped you might at least allow our companionship to live."
He looked at her without answering. Finally, he choked, "Don't--don't,
Claire, I have the right to know."
"If I promise to tell you when there is anything to tell, will you be
satisfied?" She felt no scruple of conscience at her pretense of
indifference to Lawrence, only a sense of protection for him. She did
not know from what she was protecting him, but the feeling gave her a
strange pleasure.
"I will," Philip returned, simply.
"And in the mean time will you help me pull him out of his slough of
despond?" she asked, smiling with the old, frank, intimate manner.
"Surely I will, though I confess I do not see the way."
"Then shall we go at once and begin our cheering process, my friend?"
she said, as though she were conferring a favor by the use of the word.
He winced at her immediate application of his promise.
"Perhaps we would better," he answered sadly, and turned toward the
cabin.
As she walked by his side she had already dismissed him from her
attention and was busy planning what she might do to make Lawrence
happy.
When they entered the cabin, Claire looked eagerly about the room. As
she glanced around, her face clouded. Lawrence was gone. His coat and
hat were not on the rack, and the cane which he had carved one day from
a stick which she had brought him from the woods was also missing.
Claire walked slowly into the room, her mind filled with an
unaccountable apprehension.
"Why, how abandoned the place seems without Lawrence! Where is he, I
wonder?" She tried to appear casual.
Philip followed her in and placed a chair for her. His mind, already
touched with the potential jealousy that Claire's talk had begun, leaped
ahead at her words and he felt more than ever doubtful of her attitude
toward Lawrence. Though he quickly dispelled his fear, the thought left
behind, as such things do, the readier soil for a stronger weed to
spring up in.
"He has gone out for a walk, I suppose. Doubtless, he will be back
soon." His voice was indifferent. "Will you not sit down, Claire? You
stand there looking about you as though you had lost something."
She was on the point of saying she had, but checked herself, and
accepted the chair.
"It's so unusual. He never did this before." Claire forced a smile.
"Well, he will be the better for it; I am glad that he has gone out,"
Philip answered.
"I know, but it is so difficult for him to find his way through the
snow," she said. "He told me it muffles sounds until he is almost
helpless in it. His feet can't feel the ground, and he doesn't know
which way to turn."
"He cannot possibly go far, and he cannot get lost." Philip's tone was
becoming a little edged.
"All the same, it worries me to have him out this way."
Philip started toward the door.
"Shall I go search for him?" His voice, unknown to himself, was heavy.
Claire glanced at him quickly. Her intuition told her he was jealous,
and she saw he was angry. She wanted to shout at him, "Go find
Lawrence!" and she was surprised at the sudden panicky nervousness that
seized her. But she rose calmly and crossed to the fireplace, saying as
she sat down, "No, thank you; I think he is able to take care of
himself."
Philip also seated himself.
"I think he is," he said. "Certainly he thinks so, and comes near enough
to proving his assertion."
She was both angry and pleased with his words.
"I never saw a man less handicapped by misfortune," she remarked.
"He does do very well."
"Lawrence seems all capable sense-nerves, and he is so very efficient
with his touch. What a keen appreciation of beauty he has!"
"I think he does remarkably well."
"In the hills he used to describe scenes to me, and do it accurately
just from their sound; running water and wind in the trees," she went
on, not noticing Philip's short replies.
"Yes, that is quite surprising."
"He certainly has taught me a great deal about blindness."
"Association with him does do that."
"Do you know, I believe he is one of the most unusual men I have ever
known."
Philip rose quickly.
"Doubtless. He is not the only topic of conversation our friendship
permits, is he, Claire?"
She looked up at him, and rose immediately, her eyes flashing.
"I think you are more selfish with your theories of altruism than he
with his egoism."
Philip looked quietly back at her.
"Perhaps I am where the woman I love is concerned."
Claire turned away and walked angrily toward her room.
"I see you can't maintain a friendship," she exclaimed.
"Meaning, you cannot." Philip's voice was bitter.
She turned quickly and looked at him.
"What do you mean?" she asked him, fearing.
"I mean that you are unfair. You ask me not to talk of my love, you wish
to talk friendship, while you are forcing me by your every word and act
to think of my own misery."
Claire stood aghast before him. His words seemed to her to be an
accusation so grossly false that she was stunned beyond anger.
"I don't understand," she said anxiously.
"You ought to understand. I love you, I cannot help but love you, fight
it as I will. You say you cannot love me because of your husband. Yet
your talk is not of your husband, but of this blind man. You say you
desire friendship, yet you allow me all that a woman allows her accepted
suitor."
Claire was appalled. She stared at him in amazement, faltering.
"Why, Philip, I--what is the matter? I don't do any such thing."
He laughed.
"Of course not," he replied. "You look at me with that warm light in
your eyes, because you think I am not human. I am a mere duenna, a
chaperon, perhaps."
She sank into a chair and covered her face. "I didn't think," she
moaned, and could say no more. A thousand memories of her intimate
treatment of Philip swept through her mind. She had considered him as
one of her own family, without thought, without intent, because she had
believed so strongly in his assurance of friendship. After a pause, she
gathered her thoughts.
"Philip, I may have done as you say," she spoke slowly, "but it was not
because I was not conscious of your manhood. It was because I thought
you stronger than you are. I believed you could be my friend and not ask
more."
He stood quietly looking at her where she sat.
"And what of him?" he asked, steadily.
"I am worried about him because he is blind, nothing more." She lied,
looking straight into his eyes, then rose and stepped behind the
curtain.
"Claire," he almost sang. "I am deeply, humbly, a thousand times sorry.
You cannot know how your talk of Lawrence made me wild. I am a fool, I
will admit, but I cannot think of your loving him, blind, selfish,
egoistic, intolerant of other people, I cannot."
"You needn't," she returned, coldly. Her whole soul was filled with
rage. She was recalling that he had said her eyes were alight when she
looked at him, and she told herself that it was not true.
"Won't you give me a chance to show myself as I am, Claire? I want to
prove to you that I am not a selfish beast."
She thought of Lawrence's cynical view of Philip's sentiments, and she
laughed.
Philip groaned, and then said again, "Aren't you fair enough to do that,
Claire?"
"And what will you read in my eyes next?" she inquired icily.
"Whatever is there?" he answered.
"But your imagination spoils your sight," she returned.
"Perhaps. I will not deny that I am not myself where you are concerned.
But I ask only for one more trial. And I will do my best."
Claire was growing more and more worried about Lawrence. What could have
happened to him?
"Then go and find Lawrence," she said suddenly.