A TALK BY THE WAY
Generally speaking, Rufus Sterne was not lacking in courage, either
physical or moral. But no man knows his strength till he is tested. Many
a man has passed through tempest and flood, fire and sword, unscathed
and undaunted, and in the end has gone down helplessly and ignominiously
before a pair of soft brown eyes.
When Rufus turned his head he meant to say firmly but kindly that it
would be better if they did not meet again. And then he would soothe the
hurt--if hurt there should be--by telling her how grateful he was for
her visit and how much he appreciated her kindness.
He was quite sure she would understand. She was not a child and her eyes
were more than ordinarily sharp. If she chose to take offence, of
course, he would be sorry; but better she should be offended than that
he should break his heart.
He was bristling all over with courage when their eyes met, and then all
his strength departed. Madeline had no thought of conquest. She only
wanted to be kind. She felt infinitely pitiful toward this strong man
who had been brought low through her, and her pity shone in her eyes and
vibrated in every tone of her voice.
It was her artlessness, her sweet ingenuousness that broke Rufus down.
In addition to which she was so exquisitely beautiful, while the
unfamiliar lilt and intonation of her voice were like music in his
ears.
"It will be just heaven if you will come and read to me sometimes," he
heard himself saying, and then he wondered whether he was awake or
dreaming.
"Then I will come to-morrow. It will be perfectly lovely to do some
little bit of good in the world."
The room seemed to grow dark when she took her departure, as though a
cloud drifted across the face of the sun. For a long time he lay quite
still, looking at the door, behind which she had disappeared. His heart
was in a strange tumult, but whether pleasure or pain predominated he
did not know. What he did know was that the intoxication of her presence
was the sweetest thing he had ever known, but below the sweet and
struggling to get to the top, was a sense of something exceedingly
bitter.
He felt like a drunkard steadily gravitating toward the tap-room. His
moral sense, his better judgment, urged him to turn aside or turn back;
his appetite, his desire for excitement or forgetfulness lured him with
irresistible force.
"I know I am a fool," he said to himself, "and I shall have to pay
dearly enough for my folly later on, but I can't help it."
He had rather prided himself on his courage, and this confession of
weakness, even to himself, was distinctly humiliating.
It was the kind of thing for which he would have allowed no excuse in
any other man. It was a pet theory of his that a man ought to be always
master of himself, and that any man who allowed himself to be dominated
and conquered by a human passion was not worthy of respect or even
sympathy.
Men who fail to live up to their theories are generally prolific in
excuses. To own himself beaten out and out was too much for his
self-respect. He had taken a step down, he knew, but there was a
reason for it. Perhaps, if he searched diligently enough, he would be
able to justify his conduct to the full.
[Illustration: "IT WILL BE JUST HEAVEN IF YOU WILL COME AND READ TO ME
SOMETIMES"]
Before the day was out, he found any number of excuses. This life, he
told himself, was all, and youth was the best part of life, in fact, the
only part in which enjoyment could find a place, and if a cup of delight
was placed to his lips, was it wise to dash it to the ground and spill
all its contents, because it was possible and even probable it would
leave a bitter taste in the mouth. But even though he was sure the
bitter taste would follow, was he not justified in taking the sweet when
he had the chance? Had not somebody said:
"'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all"?
Besides, he had not to consider only himself. That would be selfish.
This sweet-eyed girl wanted an outlet for her gratitude and generosity,
and if he rudely pushed aside the hand that was outstretched to help,
and churlishly refused her sympathy, how hurt she would be. And a man
would be a brute to give pain to so sweet a soul; he would rather cut
his hand off than do it.
Also it did not follow that because he saw more of her he would become
more deeply in love with her. He would recognise, of course, all the way
through that she was out of his circle--that was a fact he would never
allow to pass out of his mind. And keeping that in mind, he would be
able to keep guard over his own heart.
So before the day was done, he was able to extract all the poison from
his surrender. He might not have done the heroic thing, but it did not
necessarily follow that he had done a foolish thing. Chance had flung
this girl across his path, why should it be an evil chance? Why might
there not grow out of the acquaintance something for the good of both?
Having arrived at that position, he ceased calling himself a fool, and
gave himself up to pleasant dreams and even more pleasant anticipations.
Closing his eyes he recalled their conversation, recalled every
expression of her sensitive face, every tone of her musical voice.
He fancied her sitting again by his bedside. How dainty she was, how
unobtrusively and yet how exquisitely attired. Things he had been aware
of in a sub-conscious way now clearly defined themselves. He remembered
her teeth, even and white, her ears small and coloured like a sea-shell,
her eyebrows dark and straight, her eyelashes long, her mouth like
Cupid's bow. He remembered, too, how her rich brown hair grew low in her
neck, while a massive coil seemed to balance her shapely head.
He smiled to himself at length. "How much I noticed," he said, "without
seeming to notice. I wonder if other people think her so good to look
upon."
He slept better that night than he had done since his accident, and
through all his dreams Madeline seemed to glide, a healing and an
inspiring presence. He awoke with his nerves thrilling like harpstrings,
and a happy smile upon his lips.
He had dreamed that his invention had realised a thousand times more
than he had ever hoped or imagined, that it had lifted him into the
region of affluence and power, that he took his place among the
successful men of his generation by right of what he had done, and that,
thrilling with the knowledge of his success, he had laid his heart at
the feet of Madeline Grover. "You have been my inspiration," he said to
her. "But for my love for you I could not have wrought and striven as I
have done," and for answer she laid her hands in his and lifted her face
to be kissed; and then the twittering of the sparrows under the eaves
awoke him.
"Dreams are curious things," he said, the smile still upon his lips.
"Now I dream I fail, and now that I succeed. Both dreams cannot be true,
that is certain. I wonder. I wonder."
He was still wondering when Mrs. Tuke brought him an early cup of tea.
"Have you slept well?" she asked, and there was a sympathetic note in
her voice that he did not remember to have heard before.
"The best night I have yet had," he said, cheerfully.
"Then you don't think having so much company yesterday did you any
harm?"
"It did me good, Mrs. Tuke. I was beginning to mope."
"She is a beautiful creature."
"You called her a scare-away American yesterday."
"Did I? Oh, well, you see, I didn't know her so well then. Besides, I
never denied that she was good-looking."
"But looks are only skin deep, I have heard you say."
"And that I sticks to. But Miss Grover has sense and judgment. You
should have heard her talk yesterday. I never heard a girl of her age
speak with so much wisdom. We've quite taken to each other."
"I'm very glad to hear it."
"She's not to be judged by the ordinary foot-rule either."
"No?"
"In America girls have more freedom. You see, they've no king there,
only a president."
Rufus laughed.
"And everybody grows up equal, as it were. Girls learn to look after
themselves and men to respect 'em."
"That's as it ought to be."
"But the women of St. Gaved would be envious enough to bite their thumbs
off if they knew she made a friend of me; and would talk abominable. I
know 'em, and what they are capable of."
"Some of them can gossip a bit," he said, reflectively.
"And if they know'd I allowed her to see you," Mrs. Tuke went on.
"The fat would be in the fire," he interrupted.
"But they're not going to know. Do you think I don't know a lady when I
sees her, and know also what's due to her? You should hear Miss Grover
talk."
"She has a taking way with her."
"No, 'tisn't that. There's no chaff with her, and as for myself, I can't
abide flattery. But I do like common-sense," and with a self-satisfied
smile lighting up her severe face, Mrs. Tuke bustled out of the room.
Rufus closed his eyes and laughed softly. "The little scare-away
American got in the first shot, that's evident," he chuckled, and he
kept on smiling to himself at intervals during the day.
The afternoon was beginning to wear away before Madeline put in an
appearance. She came into the room like a breath of spring--gentle,
fragrant, energising. She was not at all shy, neither was she obtrusive.
There was never anything self-conscious in her movements. She was trying
to be kind, trying to pay in some measure a big debt of gratitude she
owed, and she was supremely happy in making the attempt.
"Do you know, I feel real pleased with myself to-day," she said, in her
quaint American way.
"Do you?" he questioned.
"Seems to me living up in a big house like Trewinion Hall, one has
scarcely a chance of being kind or neighbourly, and when the chance does
come, it seems great."
"Do you think exclusiveness and selfishness mean the same thing?"
"I don't know. That's a sum I haven't figured out yet. But what would
you like me to read to you?"
"Anything you like. I fear you will not consider my stock of books very
interesting."
"Have they all to do with science and mechanics, and that sort of
thing?"
"No, not all."
She rose from her chair and went to a table on which several volumes
lay, and began to read their titles. "Principles of Western
Civilisation," "The Earth's Beginning," "Facts and Comments," "Education
and Empire," "Philosophy and Life."
"Ah! here is a story book I expect. 'The Buried Temple,' by Maurice
Maeterlinck," and she picked up the book and began to turn over the
pages, then with a faint sigh she laid it down again.
"Would you rather I talked to you?" she questioned, turning her face
toward him with a smile.
"I think I would," he replied. "I am not much in the mood for philosophy
to-day."
"But why vex your brains with philosophy at all? What you need when you
are ill is a real, good story. The next time I come to see you I'll
bring a book along with me."
"What will you bring?"
"I don't know yet. Do you like poetry?"
"When it is poetry."
"Are you sure you know it when you see it?" and she laughed good
humouredly.
"Well, I would not like to dogmatise on that point," he answered.
"You've read Whittier, of course?"
"No."
"Oh, I'm sorry for you. Whittier is great. I like him heaps better than
your Browning."
"Why?"
"Because I understand him better. I expect poetry is like beauty, in the
eye of the beholder, don't you think so? Now if poetry don't touch me,
don't thrill me, why, whatever it may be to other people it isn't poetry
to me. Do I make myself plain?"
"Quite plain."
"Now Whittier just says what I feel, but what I haven't the power to
express; just sums up in great, noble words the holiest emotions I have
ever known."
"Yes."
"Then Whittier is a man of faith and vision, as all poets must be if
they are to be great. I like Browning for that. He sees clear. He
doesn't merely hope, he believes. He not only 'faintly trusts the larger
hope,' he builds on the rock. A man who has no faith is like a bird with
a broken wing. Don't you think so?"
"But what do you mean by faith?" he asked, uneasily.
"Ah, now you want to puzzle me," she said, with a smile.
"Oh, no I don't," he replied, quickly. "I only want to get your meaning
clearly."
"But I'm not a poet," she answered. "I'm only a girl, and I can't find
the right words. But I just mean faith. Seeing the invisible, if I may
say so. Realising it. Being conscious of it."
"The invisible?" he questioned.
"Yes, God, and heaven, and immortality. Believing also in goodness and
humanity and the sacredness of human life."
"Do you believe that human life is a very sacred thing?"
"Why, of course I do! What a question to ask."
"Does it seem so very strange?"
"Why, yes. Think of the care that is taken of everybody, even the
worthless. Think of all the hospitals and asylums----"
"Yes, that is one side of the question," he said. "What we may call the
sentimental side. But place human life in the scale against money or
territory or human ambition."
"Well?"
"We mow men down with machine guns or blow them up with dynamite--not in
twos or threes, but in thousands and tens of thousands, and the more we
kill the more satisfied we are."
"Oh yes, I know. That is all very terrible," she said, with a puzzled
expression in her eyes.
"But why terrible?" he questioned.
"I can't explain myself very well," she answered, slowly; "but, of
course, we must defend our country."
"Therefore country is more sacred than life."
"Oh no, you are not going to catch me that way. To die for one's country
must be great, heroic."
"Exactly. Therefore, in comparison with what we call country--that is,
our particular form of government, or our particular set of rulers, or
our particular stake in it--what you call the sacredness of human life
occupies a very subordinate position."
"But you would risk your life in defence of your country?" she
questioned, evasively.
"Most certainly I would," he answered, promptly; "but then you see I am
not hampered by any notions respecting the sacredness of human life."
He was sorry a moment later that their conversation had taken the turn
it had. He felt that he would bite his tongue out rather than give this
sweet-eyed maiden pain; and that he had pained her was too evident by
the look upon her face. And yet, having gone so far, he was bound to be
honest.
"If I held your views," he went on, "nothing would induce me to take a
human life--neither patriotism nor any other ism."
"Oh, but," she said, quickly, "there are some things more sacred even
than life, honour for instance, and truth."
"No doubt. But there is surely a difference between losing one's life,
giving it up for the sake of some great principle, and taking the life
of another."
"Then you would not be afraid to die for something you valued much?"
"Why should a man be afraid to die at all? Of course life is sweet while
you have something to live for, but to rest and be at peace, should not
that be sweet also?"
"You want to live?"
"Now I do. For the moment I have something to live for. Something that
gives zest to existence and fills all my dreams."
"I am so sorry to have delayed its execution. Perhaps you will come to
it with more zest and insight after the long rest."
"I think I shall," he answered, slowly, looking beyond her to where the
day grew red in the west.
"I wish I could help you," she said, as if thinking aloud; "but women
can do so little."
He withdrew his eyes from the window and looked at her again.
"You will do much," he said, speaking earnestly.
"How?"
"By inspiring someone to be great. A clod would become a hero with
your--your----" then he broke off suddenly and withdrew his eyes.
"Won't you finish the sentence?" she questioned, looking at him shyly.
"Not to-day," he answered, and a few minutes later she rose to go.