PAUL GRIGGS left Francesca with the certainty in his own mind that she
had produced no impression whatever upon him, but he was conscious that
his opinion of her had undergone a change. He was suddenly convinced
that she was the best woman he had ever known, and that Gloria's
accusations were altogether unjust and unfounded. Recalling her face,
her manner, and her words, he knew that whatever influence she might
have had upon Reanda, there could be no ground for Gloria's jealousy.
She certainly disturbed him strangely, for Gloria was perfect in his
eyes, and he accepted all she said almost blindly. The fact that Reanda
had struck her now stood in his mind as the sole reason for the
separation of husband and wife.
Gloria was far from realizing what influence she had over the man she
loved. It seemed to her, on the contrary, that she was completely
dominated by him, and she was glad to feel his strength at every turn.
Her enormous vanity was flattered by his care of her, and by his
uncompromising admiration of her beauty as well as of her character, and
she yielded to him purposely in small things that she might the better
feel his strength, as she supposed. The truth, had she known it, was
that he hardly asserted himself at all, and was ready to make any and
every sacrifice for her comfort and happiness. He had sacrificed his
pride to borrow money from a friend to meet the first necessities of
their life together. He would have given his life as readily.
They led a strangely lonely existence in the little apartment in the Via
della Frezza. The world had very soon heard of what had happened, and
had behaved according to its lights. Walking alone one morning while
Griggs was at work, Gloria had met Donna Tullia Meyer, whom she had
known in society, and thoughtlessly enough had bowed as though nothing
had happened. Donna Tullia had stared at her coldly, and then turned
away. After that, Gloria had realized what she had already understood,
and had either not gone out without Griggs, or, when she did, had kept
to the more secluded streets, where she would not easily meet
acquaintances.
Griggs worked perpetually, and she watched him, delighting at first in
the difference between his way of working and that of Angelo Reanda;
delighted, too, to be alone with him, and to feel that he was writing
for her. She could sit almost in silence for hours, half busy with some
bit of needlework, and yet busy with him in her thoughts. It seemed to
her that she understood him--she told him so, and he believed her, for
he felt that he could not be hard to understand.
He was as singularly methodical as Reanda was exceptionally intuitive.
She felt that his work was second to her in his estimation of it, but
that, since they both depended upon it for their livelihood, they had
agreed together to put it first. With Reanda, art was above everything
and beyond all other interests, and he had made her feel that he worked
for art's sake rather than for hers. There was a vast difference in the
value placed upon her by the two men, in relation to their two
occupations.
"I have no genius," said Griggs to her one day. "I have no intuitions of
underlying truth. But I have good brains, and few men are able to work
as hard as I. By and bye, I shall succeed and make money, and it will be
less dull for you."
"It is never dull for me when I can be with you," she answered.
As he looked, the sunshine caught her red auburn hair, and the
love-lights played with the sunshine in her eyes. Griggs knew that life
had no more dulness for him while she lived, and as for her, he believed
what she said.
Without letting him know what she was doing, she wrote to her father. It
was not an easy letter to write, and she thought that she knew the
savage old Scotchman's temper. She told him everything. At such a
distance, it was easy to throw herself upon his mercy, and it was safer
to write him all while he was far away, so that there might be nothing
left to rouse his anger if he returned. She had no lack of words with
which to describe Reanda's treatment of her; but she was also willing to
take all the blame of the mistake she had made in marrying him. She had
ruined her life before it had begun, she said. She had taken the law
into her own hands, to mend it as best she could. Her father knew that
Paul Griggs was not like other men--that he was able to protect her
against all comers, and that he could make the world fear him if he
could not make it respect her. Her father must do as he thought right.
He would be justified, from the world's point of view, in casting her
off and never remembering her existence again, but she begged him to
forgive her, and to think kindly of her. Meanwhile, she and Griggs were
wretchedly poor, and she begged her father to continue her allowance.
If Paul Griggs had seen this letter, he would have been startled out of
some of his belief in Gloria's perfection. There was a total absence of
any moral sense of right or wrong in what she wrote, which would have
made a more cynical man than Griggs was look grave. The request for the
continuation of the allowance would have shocked him and perhaps
disgusted him. The whole tone was too calm and business-like. It was too
much as though she were fulfilling a duty and seeking to gain an object
rather than appealing to Dalrymple to forgive her for yielding to the
overwhelming mastery of a great passion. It was cold, it was
calculating, and it was, in a measure, unwomanly.
When she had sent the letter, she told Griggs what she had done, but her
account of its contents satisfied him with one of those brilliant false
impressions which she knew so well how to convey. She told him rather
what she should have said than what she had really written, and, as
usual, he found that she had done right.
It was not that she would not have written a better letter if she had
been able to compose one. She had done the best that she could. But the
truth lay there, or the letter was composed as an expression of what she
knew that she ought to feel, and was not the actual outpouring of an
overfull heart. She could not be blamed for not feeling more deeply, nor
for her inability to express what she did not feel. But when she spoke
of it to the man she loved, she roused herself to emotion easily enough,
and her words sounded well in her own ears and in his. To the last, he
never understood that she loved such emotion for its own sake, and that
he helped her to produce it in herself. In the comparatively simple
view of human nature which he took in those days, it seemed to him that
if a woman were willing to sacrifice everything, including social
respectability itself, for any man, she must love him with all her
heart. He could not have understood that any woman should give up
everything, practically, in the attempt to feel something of which she
was not capable.
In reply to her letter, Dalrymple sent a draft for a considerable sum of
money, through his banker. The fact that it was addressed to her at Via
della Frezza was the only indication that he had received her letter. In
due time, Gloria wrote to thank him, but he took no notice of the
communication.
"He never loved me," she said to Griggs as the days went by and brought
her nothing from her father. "I used to think so, when I was a mere
child, but I am sure of it now. You are the only human being that ever
loved me."
She was pale that day, and her white hand sought his as she spoke, with
a quiver of the lip.
"I am glad of it," he answered. "I shall not divide you with any one."
So their life went on, somewhat monotonously after the first few weeks.
Griggs worked hard and earned more money than formerly, but he
discovered very soon that it would be all he could do to support Gloria
in bare comfort. He would not allow her to use her own money for
anything which was to be in common, or in which he had any share
whatever.
"You must spend it on yourself," he said. "I will not touch it. I will
not accept anything you buy with it--not so much as a box of cigarettes.
You must spend it on your clothes or on jewels."
"You are unkind," she answered. "You know how much pleasure it would
give me to help you."
"Yes. I know. You cannot understand, but you must try. Men never do that
sort of thing."
And, as usual, he dominated her, and she dropped the subject, inwardly
pleased with him, and knowing that he was right.
His strength fascinated her, and she admired his manliness of heart and
feeling as she had never admired any qualities in any one during her
life. But he did not amuse her, even as much as she had been amused by
Reanda. He was melancholic, earnest, hard working, not inclined to
repeat lightly the words of love once spoken in moments of passion. He
meant, perhaps, to show her how he loved her by what he would do for her
sake, rather than tell her of it over and over again. And he worked as
he had never worked before, hour after hour, day after day, sitting at
his writing-table almost from morning till night. Besides his
correspondence, he was now writing a book, from which he hoped great
things--for her. It was a novel, and he read her day by day the pages he
wrote. She talked over with him what he had written, and her
imagination and dramatic intelligence, forever grasping at situations of
emotion for herself and others, suggested many variations upon his plan.
"It is my book," she often said, when they had been talking all the
evening.
It was her book, and it was a failure, because it was hers and not his.
Her imagination was disorderly, to borrow a foreign phrase, and she was
altogether without any sense of proportion in what she imagined. He did
not, indeed, look upon her as intellectually perfect, though for him she
was otherwise unapproachably superior to every other woman in the world.
But he loved her so wholly and unselfishly that he could not bear to
disappoint her by not making use of her suggestions. When she was
telling him of some scene she had imagined, her voice and manner, too,
were so thoroughly dramatic that he was persuaded of the real value of
the matter. Divested of her individuality and transferred in his rather
mechanically over-correct language to the black and white of pen and
ink, the result was disappointing, even when he read it to her. He knew
that it was, and wasted time in trying to improve what was bad from the
beginning. She saw that he failed, and she felt that he was not a man of
genius. Her vanity suffered because her ideas did not look well on his
paper.
Before he had finished the manuscript, she had lost her interest in it.
Feeling that she had, and seeing it in her face, he exerted his strength
of will in the attempt to bring back the expression of surprise and
delight which the earlier readings had called up, but he felt that he
was working uphill and against heavy odds. Nevertheless he completed the
work, and spent much time in fancied improvement of its details. At a
later period in his life he wrote three successful books in the time he
had bestowed upon his first failure, but he wrote them alone.
Gloria's face brightened when he told her that it was done. She took the
manuscript and read over parts of it to herself, smiling a little from
time to time, for she knew that he was watching her. She did not read it
all.
"Dedicate it to me," she said, holding out one hand to find his, while
she settled the pages on her knees with the other.
"Of course," he answered, and he wrote a few words of dedication to her
on a sheet of paper.
He sent it to a publisher in London whom he knew. It was returned with
some wholesome advice, and Gloria's vanity suffered another blow, both
in the failure of the book which contained so many of her ideas and in
the failure of the man to be successful, for in her previous life she
had not been accustomed to failure of any sort.
"I am afraid I am only a newspaper man, after all," said Paul Griggs,
quietly. "You will have to be satisfied with me as I am. But I will try
again."
"No," answered Gloria, more coldly than she usually spoke. "When you
find that you cannot do a thing naturally, leave it alone. It is of no
use to force talent in one direction when it wants to go in another."
She sighed softly, and busied herself with some work. Griggs felt that
he was a failure, and he felt lonely, too, for a moment, and went to his
own room to put away the rejected manuscript in a safe place. It was not
his nature to destroy it angrily, as some men might have done at his
age.
When he came back to the door of the sitting-room he heard her singing,
as she often did when she was alone. But to-day she was singing an old
song which he had not heard for a long time, and which reminded him
painfully of that other house in which she had lived and of that other
man whom she never saw, but who was still her husband.
He entered the room rather suddenly, after having paused a moment
outside, with his hand on the door.
"Please do not sing that song!" he said quickly, as he entered.
"Why not?" she asked, interrupting herself in the middle of a stave.
"It reminds me of unpleasant things."
"Does it? I am sorry. I will not sing it again."
But she knew what it meant, for it reminded her of Reanda. She was no
longer so sure that the reminiscence was all painful.