INTO THE SUNLIGHT.
All that day they talked little. Both were occupied with their own
thoughts. Lawrence was dreaming of his work, his future with Claire, and
the home that was to be. Claire was pondering Lawrence's words, "Human
beings think many things they don't and can't do." To her these words
had been both a great comfort and a startling awakening. Almost
instantly had returned an idea which she had thought forever gone, and
all day it kept growing.
That night they camped beside a stream under great trees where tiny blue
flowers winked up at them from the deep grass. After supper they sat
beside their fire dreaming. At last Lawrence took her in his arms, and
she laid her shoulder against his.
"Lawrence," she said thoughtfully, "isn't it strange how little we know
ourselves when we think we know most?"
"Yes, I sometimes think we are nearer folly then than at any other
time."
"Do you know what I have been thinking to-day?"
"No. But I know what I have been thinking." He drew her tight, laughing.
"I have thought of you, always you, my wife to be."
She patted his hand tenderly.
"I can scarcely wait till we get out, Claire."
"I know, dear."
They listened to the purling of the stream and dreamed.
Days followed in uneventful sequence. Each brought them nearer to the
railroad, towns, and escape. Lawrence was freely merry. At times Claire
was caught in his gaiety, but more and more often he noticed that she
was quiet. He attributed her silences at first to the charming strain of
diffidence he had learned to know as part of this woman, but gradually
he grew fearful lest all was not well.
"If she wants me to know, she will tell me," he thought.
She seemed to divine what he was thinking, but she did not speak. She
wanted to be sure of herself before she said anything. Lawrence's words
came again and again, and each time they brought with them a stronger
feeling that there was yet one thing they must do. This feeling
increased as they neared the town toward which they journeyed. The night
came when they were more than ever silent.
"To-morrow," Lawrence said at last. "To-morrow we reach civilization.
Oh, Claire, Claire, with civilization come you, home, our real life!"
She moved uneasily. There was a sudden overwhelming sense of her need,
and she resolved to tell him everything.
"Lawrence," she began, "to-morrow we do reach civilization, and I--I am
finding out things about myself."
He knew she was going to tell him what troubled her. For an instant he
was filled with terror lest she say she could not love him after all.
Perhaps his fight with Philip had sickened her, killed her love. Tense
and fearful, he waited.
"Go on, Claire. I have noticed something."
"It isn't that I don't love you," she cried, seeing his fear in his
drawn face. "Oh, I do love you!"
He laughed with relief.
"Then speak away. Nothing else in the world can frighten me."
"I'm afraid that it will displease you."
"Not if it is something real to you."
"Well then--oh, it seems so hard to explain. I--I am finding myself
out."
"That ought to be pleasant."
"Yes, it is--yet, I don't know--you see, back there in the wilderness I
thought nothing mattered but you. It was so hard and uncertain. The
future was so far off. But now it's different. Every day I have neared
civilization I have grown less sure that our way is the right way."
"Why not? It all seems clear to me."
"But, Lawrence, are we quite fair? Are we quite right with ourselves?"
"I try to be. I certainly try to be fair to you."
"I know. That's it. You would want me to be fair to--to every one,
wouldn't you, and above all, to myself?"
"You must be that, Claire."
She did not continue at once. He waited, holding her hand very tight
between his own.
"Go on, Claire."
The deep earnestness of the faith in her that rang through his words
gave her courage.
"It is Howard and--and my vows to him."
Lawrence sat, his brows knit. She watched him.
"I see," he answered. "I see, but--"
"After all, I promised to be his wife forever, you know."
"But you don't love him now."
"No. I love you--and for your sake as well as my own I've got to
straighten things out between Howard and myself."
"I thought they were straight. He thinks you are dead."
"But I know that I'm not dead, and all my life I would know that I had
been unfair to myself as well as to him. I must go and get things right
before--before I marry you."
Her voice dropped and lingered caressingly yet with gracious reverence
over these last words, as one's does in speaking of holy things.
"I see," he said. Her tone told him more than her words.
"I think you do."
"Yes, I do. But when did you begin thinking of this?"
"When you said, 'Human beings think many things they don't and can't
do.'"
"I understand." He threw back his head.
"You see, dearest, it is that everything in our lives may be clean."
"Good enough, Claire." He was hearty in his agreement. To his alert mind
the problem seemed very clear.
"Yes," he went on, "you are right. It isn't going to be easy. It will
hurt him to have you tell him that you no longer love him, but I suppose
it can't be helped, and it is best."
"I knew you would say so." Her cry was full of relief.
"To-morrow morning we'll start early," he laughed. "Noon will get us to
the railroad if Ortez was right about distances, and then--home and the
last clearing-up before we start life."
The matter was settled. Claire lay down in her blankets happily. She did
not sleep at once, however. Gazing through the fire, she let her eyes
rest tenderly on the strong face of the sleeping man opposite. She had
seen much of him, and always he was fair, just, and she loved him. Her
eyes filled with tears as she thought of the suffering she must cause
her husband, yet it was right and she could do no less. She would tell
him everything. He was big and he would understand. Since her whole
nature, primal and spiritual, cried out that Lawrence was her mate,
Howard would free her. She fell asleep sure that everything would work
out right, and then--life and love, as Lawrence said with that exuberant
lift in his voice.
At noon of the next day they stopped on the brow of a high hill.
"Lawrence," Claire cried exultantly. "It is there--below us--a town!"
"Hurrah!"
They laughed like children who had discovered a long-sought treasure,
then hand-in-hand as they had walked so far, they dropped down the steep
slope and into a quaint mining village.
The sound of men, the scent of smoke, and above all, the clang and puff
of a locomotive, sent their blood racing. Too happy to speak, they ran
along the street scarcely noticing the people, and found the station.
That night they were speeding toward the coast, and a few days later
found them northward-bound on a liner.
It was decided that Lawrence should not go with her to her home. He
would wait in San Francisco till she had seen her husband and was free.
They parted with eager yet hesitating hearts in that city. Claire found
it harder than she had imagined to go alone, but her will was master and
she did not falter. To Lawrence, waiting for word from her, time was
dead and moved not at all.
When Claire arrived, the old familiar city seemed strangely desolate.
She found herself wondering with a little flush of shame how she could
have loved it so. Then came her testing time. She had arrived late at
night and gone to a hotel. No one had noticed her. The next morning as
she went into the breakfast-room, some one rose hastily, with an
exclamation. It was her husband's business partner.
How she ever got through her own explanations she did not know, then she
heard him speaking.
"Yes, Mrs. Barkley, we had given you up for lost with the others on that
fated ship. And I cannot express my regret at the sorrow you have
returned to meet."
"I--sorrow--why?" She stared at him wonderingly.
He looked surprised, then understood. Claire listened silently to his
brief, sincere sympathy as he told her how her husband had died during
the winter of pneumonia.
"It has been nearly six months now," he finished, "and, of course, I am
very sorry for you. If I can do anything to help you, don't hesitate to
call on me, please."
"Thank you. I--I won't."
She heard her own voice change. Stifled, she fled up-stairs.
Her grief was sincere, unshaded by any selfish thought that it made her
own course easier or more justifiable in the eyes of society. To her,
Howard Barkley's death changed nothing save that the man whom she had
once loved sincerely was now no more.
But the living remained, and to the call of the living her life was
henceforth joyfully dedicated.
(The end.)
[Transcriber's Note: The following typographical errors present in the
original edition have been corrected.]
In Chapter V, "tenements she had visted in her charity work" was changed
to "tenements she had visited in her charity work".
In Chapter VII, a missing quotation mark was added after "What, indeed,
is moral law?"
In Chapter IX, "disdiscover what she was" was changed to "discover what
she was".
In Chapter X, "Disliking him as he did" was changed to "Disliking him as
she did".
In Chapter XI, "as abnormal as her depondency had been before" was
changed to "as abnormal as her despondency had been before".
In Chapter XVIII, "I promise to an emotionless judge" was changed to "I
promise to be an emotionless judge", and "harded and harder to wait" was
changed to "harder and harder to wait".
In Chapter XX, "clearly defined discusion" was changed to "clearly
defined discussion", and "the overwelming appreciation of beauty in
nature" was changed to "the overwhelming appreciation of beauty in
nature".
[Transcriber's Note: The following summary originally appeared at the
beginning of the serial's second installment.]
PRECEDING CHAPTERS BRIEFLY RETOLD
When the City of Panama foundered off the coast of Chile, Lawrence
Gordon suddenly realized he had been left, in the frenzy of the
disaster, alone on the deck.
Then, before he had fully recovered from the lash of the wind and the
violence of the waves, he was swept overboard and into the seething
maelstrom of an angry sea.
As he came up from the depths he struck a heavy timber, and with the
strength of desperation he dragged his weight up on it and clung fast.
"Land may be in sight," was his thought, "and I shall never know!"
Lawrence Gordon was blind.
Hours had passed. The wind-lashed water beat him as he lay on the
timber. Fear and the cold drove him to rave at life and death alike.
Finally, over the roar of the wind, he caught the tumbling of breakers.
His plank was spun round, the swell lifted him from his position, and
the next breaker rolled him past the water-line.
Once with the feel of the sand beneath his feet he ran until a rock
caught him above the knees and sent him headlong.
When he regained consciousness he returned to the water to hunt for
clams. As he came ashore again he tripped over an object that on
investigation proved a woman.
Claire Barkley answered to his ministrations, and recognized the blind
man she had observed on the boat. She could furnish the eyes for an
investigation of their situation inland, but her ankle had been sprained
in the wreck and she was unable to walk.
When months after, just as they had reached the limit of human
endurance--what with hunger, the cold, and privation--they stumbled into
the cabin of Philip Ortez. The Spanish mountaineer declared it no less
than a miracle that a blind man should have carried a woman in his arms
half across the Andes--from the coast to the borders of Bolivia.
Then they settled down to spend the winter in Philip's cabin. And now
the latent antagonism of the woman, who was so curiously stirred by the
apparent coldness of this blind sculptor to her charm, began to plan the
man's punishment.
[Transcriber's Note: The following summary originally appeared at the
beginning of the serial's third installment. The summary at the
beginning of the serial's fourth installment, if one was present, was
not available when preparing this electronic edition.]
PRECEDING CHAPTERS BRIEFLY RETOLD
When Lawrence Gordon, numb with cold and hunger, after weeks of weary
wandering through the mountains in a desperate effort to find a
habitation, came in sight of the mountaineer's little cabin, he dropped
the woman from his breaking arms and fell, exhausted and unconscious, in
the snow.
Flung into the sea when the ship foundered, he had eventually found his
way to the beach, and here he stumbled on the unconscious form of Claire
Barkley.
Mrs. Barkley's ankle had been sprained in the wreck and she was unable
to walk. The man was strong, dominant, and unafraid; but he was blind.
Carrying the woman in his arms the blind man had stumbled half across
the Andes, for the boat was wrecked off the coast of Chile, and Philip
Ortez, whose cabin they had reached, declared they were on the borders
of Bolivia, about two hundred miles from the nearest railroad station.
This Spanish scholar, gentleman, and recluse readily welcomed two such
promising guests for the winter. A charming woman of twenty-six, with a
mind as well as emotions, and a man not much older, who was both a
philosopher and an artist, promised no end of diversion for the winter.
And diversion, not to say, drama, came--the eternal triangle.
Lawrence was slow in admitting his love for Claire, even to himself. And
Claire, who was affronted by the seeming cold and calculating
indifference of this big, blind god, suddenly realized his apparent
coldness held the very heart of passion itself.
In the playful scramble of a snow-fight before the cabin, Lawrence had
taken her by the waist to wash her face with snow, and the contact of
her tightly held body betrayed the tensity of the man's feeling. Claire
broke from his grasp to look into the eyes of Philip, who had stood in
the doorway to watch the fun. In the eyes of the Spaniard she detected
the emotion she felt in the touch of the blind sculptor.
The next day, to relieve the suppressed passion in her own as well as
Lawrence's soul, she proposed to go with Philip, as she sometimes did,
when he went out to spend the day with his traps.
On the return journey, when the conversation was fast drifting into the
personal, Philip, carried off his feet by the nearness of the woman and
the madness in his blood, snatched Claire up in his arms and covered her
full lips with his kisses.
The indignant woman brought him to an abject apology after his wild
confession of love, and entered into a compact of friendship with him.
Reaching the cabin, the blind man, whose acute soul and senses had long
told him of Philip's passion, held out the finished carving he had been
at work on all these weeks--a winged cherub.
In his eyes it was the symbol of his love for her. But her words of
acceptance made him think in her eyes it was rather a symbol of her love
for the mountaineer.
To Philip it was a symbol of hope.