ANGLES OF A TRIANGLE.
It was well into April before Lawrence was able to walk again. His
convalescence had been slow, and he was still very weak. They had
planned to start out by the end of April, but they were compelled to
postpone the journey until the middle of May. Philip was fired with
impatience. He wanted to get out to a priest and be married to Claire.
She, on her part, was glad of the delay. She dreaded the hour when she
should have to tell Philip that she would not marry him. Her joy in her
love for Lawrence was too great, however, to allow for much thought
about the matter.
She looked back upon her yielding to Philip as upon a terrible
nightmare, but she still liked him and could not bring herself to limit
the intimate ways which had sprung up between them. He did not imagine,
therefore, that there had been any change in her.
Claire had never told Lawrence of what he had said during his illness,
but her treatment of him was very different from what it had been
before. He had come out of his illness with a calm assurance of his
future, and he knew that he loved Claire. He did not know her feeling,
but as soon as he should be well he meant to tell her of his love once
more.
The days passed in quiet serenity. Outside the cabin the plateau flowed
under the pines into green and white and gold with dark patches of blue
flowers that filled Claire's heart with song. The lake was open and
glistened in the warm sun, while fish leaped in it, sending up sparkling
rainbow drops. Claire took to wandering along the shore with Lawrence or
Philip, or both, talking gaily all the while. She never mentioned her
husband, it was only of their return to civilization that she spoke and
of the great time the three of them would have in celebration. They
laughed agreement with her words.
As Lawrence grew more and more like himself there came a time, however,
when Philip could not but see that Claire was giving the artist a
tenderness, a sweetness of companionship, and a carefully guarded joy
which he had never known. It was impossible for him to say to himself
longer that it was only her nursing manner.
He took to watching her eyes, and again and again he caught them filled
with a deep light which they had never held for him. He now realized
that he had always feared Claire might love Lawrence, that he had feared
it even on the day of her confession. A fierce desire of possession
gripped him, and he swore to have this woman as his wife, in spite of
Lawrence, in spite of herself, if need be. It was this last frame of
mind which gained in constancy until he became a danger to Claire's
happiness.
She saw it in his dark expression, and her heart cried out against
herself for the time of weakness. Then a great doubt would assail her.
Lawrence had never spoken of love since he had regained his
consciousness, and she wondered if, after all, his talk had been mere
delirium, without basis in his normal mind. She determined to find out,
and then tell Philip the frank truth. She was sure that he would receive
it as a gentleman should, and let her moment of weakness pass forgiven.
She went over all their experience together, and she came to feel that,
in any case, she could never live with him. Even though Lawrence did not
care, she told herself, she could go out into the world and find her
place.
One evening she came into the house and found Philip alone, sitting
darkly over his book. She felt sorry for him, and, wanting to leave him
friendly memories, if she could, she walked quietly over to him and laid
her hand on his shoulder.
He looked up and smiled faintly, though his face remained clouded.
"Philip," she said, "you look worried!"
"I dare say I do," he returned quietly, but there came into his eyes a
fierce light that frightened her.
"Why should you?" she asked.
"Claire!" He stood up and faced her. "I do not know what you think of
Lawrence. I do not know what he thinks of you. I do not care. I will
tell you one thing. You lay in my arms yonder and said that you would be
my wife. If you did not mean it"--he hesitated--"then you are scarcely
the type of woman to be allowed to live. Don't lead me to suspect that
such is the case."
Claire gasped, realized her situation, and for the moment was carried
beyond all power of speech. She sank in a chair and stared at him. Then,
suppressing her rising fear, she said calmly: "Philip, would you have me
yours against your will?"
His eyes flashed fire at her.
"Would you say you wanted to be mine and not mean it?"
"No," she faltered, "I--I might have meant it then."
"Does your heart change with the passing breeze?"
She was feeling panicky. Her throat was dry and hot.
"I hope not," she said faintly.
"Bah! Does it?" he demanded.
"No," she said, even more faintly.
"Very well. You lay in my arms there and told me you would be my wife.
Years ago, before you came into my life, another woman played with me.
You shall not. I do not know what has happened to bring about the change
in you. It cannot alter my will. You are mine by your own lips. It is
best for us both that I hold you to your promise. When we go out of this
place to a priest you shall become my wife. You dare not be untrue to
yourself!"
She was afraid to answer him. His dark, threatening face told her that
he was beyond reason, and she sank wearily back in her chair. In her
heart she was determined never to be his, but her lips played her false.
Despite her will they whispered submissively, "Very well, Philip. I
understand."
He laughed aloud. "What in Heaven's name made you act like that,
Claire?" he asked, once more kindly and agreeable.
"A woman's whim!" she said, and hated herself for saying it.
"I don't understand women," he laughed softly.
"Neither do I." It was Lawrence's voice. He had come in, just in time to
hear the last words. "Nor men, either--except in one thing."
"What is the one thing?" asked Claire eagerly.
"That, given a normal, healthy mind, they will sacrifice all their idols
for life. Life is the one eternally insistent thing."
Philip chuckled. "You are yourself again, I see."
"Yes, and stronger than ever in my faith," said Lawrence, sitting down.
"I know the price I would pay for life. It is the price every human
being would pay, if demanded."
"What is that price?" Philip asked.
"The whole of one's faith in God and man!"
"Nonsense!" Philip spoke curtly. "I would die before forfeiting a dozen
ideals I hold dear!"
"Would you?" Lawrence looked at him quizzically. "Would you sacrifice
your own life before you would the love of your sweetheart, for
instance, if you had one?"
The conversation was similar to those which they had had months before,
but the fire was nearer the surface now.
"Yes." Philip's answer came swiftly.
"Then you are a sex-maddened mountaineer!"
"And you are talking like the beast you are not. I know you do not
believe that."
"I know I do. I would only die for a woman if she were my life."
"But any real love finds her so."
"Folly! I find my work, my future, my dream of a single immortal statue
more my life than any woman!" Lawrence exclaimed.
"I wonder if you really do," Claire mused, half to herself.
"Yes," Lawrence insisted, "although she might be necessary to that
statue. At least I believe she might--and I would feel sure of it if I
wanted her badly enough," he ended amusedly.
"That merely means that you are still utterly selfish!" said Claire.
"Yes, I am." Lawrence was thoughtful. "It is a paradox, I am so selfish
that, although I would sacrifice myself to the last degree for a person
I loved, yet I would all the time feel that I was a fool, that I was
doing an absurd thing when life was so good."
"I see," Claire observed. "And I know I would do the same."
"I would do it," Philip said, "but I would not feel a fool. It would
seem to me right."
Claire looked straight into his eyes. "You would not, Philip," she
declared softly. "Your own happiness would come first--and you know it."
The Spaniard's gaze shifted, and there was silence in the cabin. When he
looked up his eyes had changed their expression.
"Yes," he agreed steadily, "I admit it. Hereafter I mean to have what I
want from life at any cost."
"Yet you will go on talking ideals," Lawrence mocked.
"Yes--and thinking them, too."
"While Lawrence will make the sacrifice and go on talking his
selfishness," Claire added.
Both men laughed constrainedly.
"And I," Claire continued, "if it is necessary, will lie to preserve my
will, and, having it secure, will use it to obtain what I want."
"We are at last three delightfully frank, insufferable, unpleasant, and
very natural, likable human beings!" Lawrence laughed.
"And on that basis we will work out our fates," murmured Claire.
"We will do just that," Lawrence answered gaily.
"Be they good or bad, we will meet our futures with perfect
self-knowledge," contributed Philip.
"Then most likely they will be bad," Claire added with conviction.
They gave up talking, and each abandoned himself to his own reflections.
In the minds of the two men these thoughts assumed widely differing
words, though they were the same thoughts.
Philip was garbing his impulses, desires, and determinations in clothes
that furnished his habitual mental wardrobe. With their marriage, he
thought, Claire would learn the real Philip. He would treat her with
such deference, such tender respect, and such devotion that she would
see the wisdom of her choice. He would prove to her that sex mattered
little, was altogether secondary. It was her great companionship, her
dear thoughtfulness, her charming personality that he loved. Respect,
first of all: happy married life depended on respect; then, common
interest, friendship between two human beings, and, last and least
important, that wonderful emotion springing out of the divine God-given
reproductive life of both.
Lawrence was thinking very different words to the same end. He thought
of her as his mate, his comrade, and his equal. He admired her brain,
smiled at the thought of their hours of intellectual pleasure, dreamed
of her as the stimulus to creation which her mind should help shape into
master work.
He loved her beauty and her measureless well of bubbling energy. What a
help she could be to him! She was the greatest of all women; he wanted
her, needed her. Could he realize his dream? That was the point. Well,
no matter, or, at least, no use in speculating. He would try. If she
were willing, what a life of joy and accomplishment lay before them! If
not, he had lived alone until this time, and he could continue to live
alone. Meantime, was Philip the barrier that would keep him from her? He
hoped not. He did not believe that she loved Philip. If she did, he
would be a good loser and wish her joy. His heart ached at the thought.
But, after all, one doesn't die over such things, and he would recover.
"I'm going to get the supper," said Claire somewhat abruptly. She rose
and set to work.
Here the thoughts of the two men flowed into an identical channel. It
was certainly good to sit and listen to her. That sound would be very
agreeable, indeed, at the end of a day, in one's own home. As for her
husband, he was out of the question. If Claire went back to him, she
might find him married or in love again, unwilling to receive her after
her long months with two men in the wilderness, suspicious of such a
thing being possible without more intimacies than he would care to
overlook. No, her husband did not matter. She would be justified and
safe in remarrying. Of course, not safe if she returned to America, but
that she would not do.
At this point their thoughts diverged. Philip was seeing Claire as the
continued inmate of his cabin. Lawrence was painting a delightful mental
picture of Claire as the ever-present fairy of his studio in some South
American town, or perhaps in Paris. He preferred France; it was a land
of more brilliance, more freedom, and certainly much more appreciation
of the things in which they were interested. Besides, his work would
carry more prestige in the world if it came from Europe.
He thanked the memory of old Roger Burton, of Cripple Creek, and he
rejoiced that he would be able to give Claire the home to which she was
entitled. He smiled as his thoughts went back to the mines and the dirty
little newsboy an old man had befriended. Burton's quarter to Red had
kept Lawrence, the boy, from becoming a coward, and Burton's slender
provision for the college graduate would now insure happiness for
Lawrence the man. Many times before he had laughed scornfully at the
untouched interest from the miner's bonds. He could make his own living.
But now there would be Claire. The old man would have been glad to see
his protégé happy in the love of such a woman.
Meanwhile Claire was doing her work automatically. In her mind there was
pleasure at the thought that Lawrence was listening to her movements.
But she was filled with a dead weight that seemed likely to break her
down with its dreadful pressure. Vaguely she wished that she had never
seen Philip, even that she had never seen Lawrence, or that she had
perished with him in the mountains.
How had she ever placed herself in the position she was now in? She had
come by the way of a terrible road and, looking ahead, she could see
nothing but sadness, anguish, and a life of dull discontent with
Philip--that or death!
Lawrence had had time and opportunity since his recovery to declare
himself, and he had not done so. She had had time and opportunity to
tell him frankly of her own feeling, but she had not done so. She did
not know why. Now she could not. Philip had given her to understand his
desperate determination to marry her, and, after all she had said and
done, she had no right to refuse him. If she told him the truth he might
kill Lawrence or her, or both of them. These tragic idealists, she
exclaimed to herself, what a tangle they can make out of life!
Oh, what a noose she had managed to fasten around her own neck! Would
the problem never be settled, one way or the other?
What would she do if Philip tried to force her to marry him? Kill him?
Was she, then, so primitive, so savage, so much the slave of her own
desires that she would slay to gain her end? She remembered Lawrence's
talk when he was ill, "We killed those days, Claire, killed because we
wanted fuller life, fuller knowledge, fuller expansion of our own vital
existence; we were gropers after more light!"
"Supper!" she said dully, and then sat down.
They ate in silence save for the occasional necessary word, and
afterward went immediately to bed.
Claire soon fell asleep, with the last thought in her mind--to live as
she wanted to live she would pay any price!