WHEN MANHOOD IS LOST WOMAN'S TIME IS COME.
In the misery of awakening to a consciousness of existing facts, Leonard
could see no possibility of extrication from the bog of degradation into
which he had fallen. With excellent intentions on the part of his
pastors and masters, he had been trained to dishonest depreciation of
his own strength, and he was now without confidence or courage. His days
had been without guile, and the unaccustomed aspect of guilt overwhelmed
him with hopeless terror. The precepts instilled from infancy thundered
direful threats, dwelling lingeringly on the curses of Omnipotence; and
in the moment of the acquirement of the dread knowledge that he had been
self-deceived, that the Grace of God had not been his, that he, like
other doomed and defrauded sinners, had mistaken those "common
operations of the spirit," that even non-elect may have, for the
effectual call addressed only to the few chosen from eternity, and which
to all others is a monstrous mockery--in the moment of this awful
revelation he felt all the suffocating horror of that which he had
taught as truth: that for the weak there is no Father, no path but the
path of evil.
The woman looked upon the exhibition of misery thus presented with
compassion tinged with scorn, yet with bewilderment. She had never seen
a sinner like this before; but instinctively she felt that when manhood
is lost woman's time has come.
"_Voyons, cheri_," she said, "what is it all about?" and she drew his
head to her bosom.
He grasped at the offered sympathy as a starving man may grasp a loaf.
The picture he presented was not adorable, but there was truth in it,
if, also, some unconscious comedy; and her compassion was not without
sincerity, though his broken story was of less interest to her than the
simplicity of the narrator. She felt that she had been fashioned fit
for this man's needs; and while she soothed him, his spirits rose a
little, and he experienced a sort of satisfaction that, since he had
taken this direction, he had gone amazingly far. See, now, what Natalie
had done!
They rescued Berthe's clothes and left the boarding-house, and were soon
quartered in a small French hotel, bathed and well dressed. The
surroundings were cheerful; the lunch table, with its bright glassware
and silver, white napery and bottle of champagne in its bucket of ice,
was inviting; the woman was gay, yet still compassionate and tender.
With the first glass of wine Leonard felt actually happy; and as he sat
opposite the well-clad woman with the great dark eyes, now languid and
inviting, now bright with challenge, and listened to the prattle, which
women of her nation can make so engaging, he, looking back upon the past
week, was enraptured by the contrast. Of such as she really was he had
no perception; he could no more estimate her character than could the
veriest college freshman, weary with knowledge of the world. Her
brightness of intellect was apparent, and there was neither coarseness
nor ignorance of amenities in her bearing. She had said to the mistress
of the boarding-house that she was a "lady," and she fitted sufficiently
the ordinary acceptation of a much-abused term. She told her story (with
the essential suppressions and variations), and he saw in her one who
had suffered from the injustice of the world. She admitted being in the
last stress of poverty, and confessed to having suffered actual hunger,
thanking him, with the first sheen of tears in her eyes, for rescuing
her clothes from the clutches of the hawk landlady.
All these confidences, sweetened by moderate draughts of champagne--for
Berthe preached moderation, and economy as well--insensibly disposed the
man to further confidences of his own, and she listened eagerly to the
tale, of which she had heard disjointed fragments in his first outbreak
of despair.
"It is all plain, _cheri_" was her comment. "Mademoiselle--I mean your
wife--never loved you."
"I know that," was the gloomy answer.
"Ah, but why not? You so beautiful a man, so good!" and she knelt beside
him and put her arms about his neck.
"So beautiful! That is a matter of taste. So good!" he sighed, but let
his head droop on her shoulder all the same.
"Any woman must love you," she murmured. "But one thing could hinder."
"And that thing?"
"That she first loved another," she whispered.
He was silent.
"We all knew it in France," she said.
"The Marquise?" he asked huskily.
"The Marquise, assuredly. Why, we ran away from her because of it."
"Tell me all you know," he said, after awhile.
The woman's heart fluttered; here were her tools. She could keep him,
and she would. Kneeling thus beside him, her arms about him, her body
close to his, his cheek against her own, he was hers. No woman should
take him from her. Rights? Bah! Hers were the rights of conquest, and of
the fierce demands which bade her hold what she had gained. There were
no other rights.
"She loved him always," she murmured. "It is all told in that." Yet she
told much more; of how the Marquise had always suspected, of wanderings
in Paris with no other chaperone than herself; on which occasions,
knowing what was expected of her, and unwilling to spoil the pretty game
she watched, she had discreetly remained as much as possible in the
background. "He was generous and gave me presents--but, _ciel_! Why
shouldn't he with a gold mine?" They had especially affected churches,
and picture galleries where they could sit in secluded nooks, and where
Natalie's attendant could easily lose herself temporarily. "The Marquise
raved furiously," added the narrator, "but she would have raved more
furiously still had she known all I knew."
"She never loved me," faltered Leonard.
"But I loved you the moment I saw you. It was hard to have you leave me
after that kiss. Tell me it was hard for you."
"It was hard; better had I never left you."
"And now you never will. You have made me love you; and I,--I have made
you love me; is it not so? Is it wicked? Ah, no; it is good, it is
good."
To him who heard the murmured words and was enveloped in the tenderness
she shed upon him; who felt her lips upon his own, and who, in the
contact, found sweet content--to him, this was a foretaste of the life
that might be, if he had the courage to embrace it. He was like some
worn and weary pilgrim in arid sands who, visioning an oasis, lies him
down by a green brookside, rests in the fresh breezes, listens to the
rippling waters, sees their sparkle and inhales the fragrance of the
flowers, and so is lulled to fatal languor, unconscious that all is a
mere mirage.
To her he was no mere wayside victim, but in his resemblance to him
whose picture she had held toward heaven in the church, a reminder of
the happy days when first she had known love. She longed desperately to
retain him, and though she feared the dark gulf of misery in which he
had found her, with him she would have even faced it again, rather than
safety with another; so that her cajolements had the grace of sincerity,
though the parting, which he knew must come, remained constantly the
dark background of the present. It may seem that to leave the woman
required little heroism; that whatever charms she might possess for him,
that those of dignity, of worthy citizenship, of respect, of all that
even worldly men hold dear, would allure him with greater power. All of
which is reasonable, and, no doubt, such considerations do often operate
in cases where discreet sinners, having sinned in secret, quietly emerge
from the bog of evil-doing, cleanse their garments and, animated by good
resolutions, go forth among their fellows, keeping their own counsel;
but these are sinners of experience. The innocent man, like the innocent
woman, falls far when he falls; such men sacrifice present respect and
hope for the future, choosing ruin; and while there are numerous roads
to that goal, the most frequented is that one where woman roams.
But whatever heroism may have been necessary, this man possessed it. He
turned his face resolutely from the allurements of the present, and, if
trembling, faced the future.
"It cannot be otherwise," he said, falteringly. "I do not leave you to
return to happiness. I might find that with you. I go because both for
you and for me it is right. We may have years of life before us; let us
use them for repentance. In this lies our only hope."
"Do you know what my life must be?"
"One of better deeds. It is not for me," he said, sorrowfully, "to try
to win you to high thoughts. That would seem impious, and would inspire
you with just contempt for me and for those teachings I have disgraced.
But I urge you to consider these things. Seek counsel; I can give you
the means; or, if you prefer, go to a priest of your own church."
She smiled bitterly. Knowing his own deadly depression, he could read
her thoughts; he implored her not to despair, pointing out that that
which was a solemn obligation, her temporal welfare, would be surely
fulfilled by him. "Our unholy union," he said, with sad simplicity,
"entails upon me the duty of making due provision for you. This will be
a matter for immediate attention; promise me to remain quietly here
until you hear from me."
And so it was arranged, he giving her money for present needs. He
watched her while she packed his valise, touched by wifely attentions,
the lack of which, he told himself, had long been a grievance, of which
now he knew the cause. He looked about him, noting the embellishments
which her taste and her training had enabled her to add to the room,
even in the short period of their occupancy, and the sense of a
justifying grievance grew stronger.
"There's room for this," she said, holding up a bottle of champagne, the
last of a series, and unused because she had insisted upon moderation.
He watched her place it in the bag. He had resolved never again to drink
wine, but he would not refuse what she gave him, denying herself.
They said good-bye. He left her, promising soon to see her, and in his
heart solemnly resolving that they should never meet again. The lie was
but one more added to his catalogue of sins, and had been necessary. As
to that provision for her needs, he would make it generously. He could
not as yet see how details were to be arranged, but for the present
there were other things to think of. A man cannot suddenly make the
acquaintance of himself without paying some attention to the stranger.
He remained a day longer in the city, and then, absolutely unable to
bear solitude, and with a manful struggle to avoid returning to the
beckoning comfort he had left, he started on the dreaded journey
homeward.