THE next morning West walked as usual through the Park, and to his
surprise again met Alice Lane, who greeted him cordially.
“You offered me the chance of a talk with you yesterday,” she said
abruptly, “and I was rude enough to refuse. Will you give me another
chance?”
“Why, of course you know I will,” he answered, eyeing her keenly,
wondering if after all she were about to tell him that he could help her
in the difficulty created by her brother’s engagement; hoping, indeed,
that it was so.
He had walked home the night before, and had sat up late over the fire,
thinking the whole while about her. It had been borne in upon him that
in reality he did love her; not as he had loved other women from mere
physical attraction, but with a strong, deep affection that made her
necessary to him, as he now understood. So long as she did not care for
anyone else, so long as he could have her frequent companionship and
sympathy, he would, he hoped, be content. So far as anything else could
be, he had given a hostage to fortune; his wife stood between him and
the one woman who had raised his desires above mere sensuality.
“You were at the theater last night,” she said.
He laughed as he answered:
“So were you. I saw you and you saw me.”
“Yes, it was a stupid remark. I was going to say that I know who was the
woman with you.”
She spoke nervously, hesitatingly, in strong contrast to her usual
quiet, serene way of speaking.
“I saw her at Brighton with Mr. Maddison, and Agatha told me about her.
But even if I’d not heard anything about her, I should have known _what_
she is. Are you disgusted at my talking like this? Are you going to tell
me—quite kindly, I know—to mind my own business? I think it _is_ my
business. I’m your friend, and with me friendship doesn’t mean sitting
by and watching a friend—lowering himself.”
“You’re a real friend,” he said, holding out his hand and pressing
hers—“a real friend. But friendship’s blind as well as love. You put me
higher than I am; I’m not lowering myself.”
“Not higher than you were once, at any rate. And what you were once, you
can be again. You don’t love Agatha, then?”
He hesitated a moment before replying.
“No, and I see now I never did,” he answered. “I didn’t know anything
about her when I married her, or about myself either. I thought I could
go on loving her and that we should be happy together. We aren’t. I
can’t make her happy and she can’t make me. You knew that when you asked
me, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I wanted to hear you say so.”
“Why?”
“You don’t care for that other woman?” she asked, ignoring his question.
“You know that too. You know I don’t.”
“And—you can’t live alone?” she spoke almost in a whisper so that he
could scarcely catch her words.
“That’s just it. I can’t bear being alone now. I used not to mind it a
bit, but somehow I seem to have been changing lately—since I found out
that Agatha couldn’t be a real companion to me. I never wanted one
before; I suppose thinking I had found one and finding I had not, has
made me long for one. So—don’t blame me too much.”
“I’m not blaming you,” she said fiercely almost. “You don’t think I’m
preaching to you?—don’t think that. How little you know of me! I
suppose you imagine I’m a cold-blooded saint? I’m not. I’m a woman. I
can forgive any man, or any woman either, anything that they do for
love, real love. But—women like the one you were with last night I
can’t forgive—they’re pests, beasts themselves and making beasts of
others. Is that the kind of thing you expected _me_ to say? I can see it
isn’t.”
West did not answer. He was utterly amazed at his complete ignorance of
one he believed he knew well.
“You’ve never—really understood what love means,” she went on; “I
sometimes think that only women do.”
“You’re wrong there, Alice. I, for one, know. Only—only, I found out
too late. I did not find out until after I was married and the woman I
love—well—you understand. I’ve got what I don’t want and I can’t get
what I do.”
“You’re not a coward?”
“A coward? I hope not. One never knows.”
“But isn’t it rather cowardly because you think you can’t have what you
long for, to go and play at love—with such women as that?”
“It means nothing. No more than a good dinner or a beautiful picture or
a play. Just passes the time.”
“It means more than that,” she said, speaking very earnestly and
quickly, “ever so much more than that. It means that you are degrading
love, by taking part of it and making it common and vile. That’s what it
means, and you see it clearly enough when a woman does it. Don’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“You do, you _do_,” she exclaimed, standing still and looking straight
at him; but he dropped his eyes before hers, and ground his heel into
the soft gravel, “you do! I don’t care what a man or a woman does for
love. I’m not talking unthinking nonsense about the sanctity of
marriage—there’s just one thing in the world, and everything done in
its name is forgivable.”
“You mean——?”
“Love.”
He looked at her now.
“Love?” he said. “My God, there’s no man in the world worthy of you.
Alice, I thought you were really in trouble yesterday, and I wanted to
help you—is it that?”
“Is it—what?”
“Are you in love, and—are things going wrong? Perhaps I can’t help you
really, but at any rate I can sympathize.”
“Yes,” she answered, still looking at him. He had never realized fully
the beauty of her face, softened now from its wonted passivity, or the
deep splendor of her eyes. “I do love, so I _can_ understand.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, angry with himself at the downright
incompetency of his words.
“You needn’t be. I didn’t know how incomplete my life was until—I
loved. It’s made me happy. Doesn’t it help you, too? Even though it must
be hopeless?”
“Yes, it’s strange; I didn’t know until last night that I really did
love anyone. When I said good-by to her—at the theater—I walked home,
and I sat alone by my fire and thought. A lot of things I hadn’t
understood came clear, and now—I hardly think I’m the same man I was
yesterday. But—I know myself too well; I shall soon drift back to what
I was. If she loved me—it would be different. Now, don’t talk any more
about myself. Tell me—can I help you in any way?”
“Yes, you can.”
“How? I’m so glad. You’re such a thundering good sort that—I’d give a
great deal to be able to do you a good turn. What a fool the fellow must
be!”
“You can help me a great deal, by helping me to honor and respect the
man—I love.”
“Why,” he asked, puzzled and surprised, “how can I do that?”
“By remembering what I’ve said about not lowering yourself.”
Still she looked straight at him, and he at her. Gradually he came to
understand what she meant.
“Alice—it’s me you love! No, don’t answer me till I’ve spoken. I told
you that I found myself last night, and found out that I loved a woman,
really and truly loved her. You’re the woman, Alice, but I never dreamed
that you could care for me. Tell me now—is it me?”
There was no necessity for her to speak. The light in her eyes was more
eloquent than any words could have been, and careless whether anyone was
watching, he seized her hands in his.
“Alice, you do love me?”
Then he drew himself apart quickly, saying:
“I forgot.”
“What is it?”
“Agatha.”
“I don’t pretend not to know what you mean,” she said slowly. “Do you
think I haven’t thought of her? If she had loved you, or been able to
love you, you should never have known. But as things are—there’s only
one way—we love.”