IN spite of all that Griggs could do, and he did his utmost, it was hard
to live in anything approaching to comfort on the meagre remuneration he
received for his correspondence, and his pride altogether forbade him to
allow Gloria to contribute anything to the slender resources of the
small establishment. At first, it had amused her to practise little
economies, even in the matter of their daily meals. Griggs denied
himself everything which was not absolutely necessary, and it pleased
Gloria to imitate him, for it made her feel that she was helping him.
The housekeeping was a simple affair enough, and she undertook it
readily. They had one woman servant as cook and maid-of-all-work, a
strong young creature, not without common-sense, and plentifully gifted
with that warm, superficial devotion which is common enough in Italian
servants. Gloria had kept house for her father long enough to understand
what she had undertaken, and it seemed easy at first to do the same
thing for Griggs, though on a much more restricted scale.
But the restriction soon became irksome. In a more active and
interesting existence, she would perhaps not have felt the constant
pinching of such excessive economy. If there had been more means within
her reach for satisfying her hungry vanity, she could have gone through
the daily round of little domestic cares with a lighter heart or, at
least, with more indifference. But she and Griggs led a very lonely
life, and, as in all lonely lives, the smallest details became
important.
It was not long before Gloria wished herself in her old home in the
Corso, not indeed with Reanda, but with Paul Griggs. He had made her
promise to use only the money he gave her himself for their
housekeeping. She secretly deceived him and drew upon her own store, and
listened in silence to his praise of her ingenuity in making the little
he was able to give her go so far. He trusted her so completely that he
suspected nothing.
She expected that at the end of three months her father would send her
another draft, but the day passed, and she received nothing, so that she
at last wrote to him again, asking for money. It came, as before,
without any word of inquiry or greeting. Dalrymple evidently intended to
take this means of knowing from time to time that his daughter was alive
and well. She would be obliged to write to him whenever she needed
assistance. It was a humiliation, and she felt it bitterly, for she had
thought that she had freed herself altogether and she found herself
still bound by the necessity of asking for help.
It seemed very hard to be thus shut off from the world in the prime of
her youth, and beauty, and talent. To a woman who craved admiration for
all she did and could do, it was almost unbearable. Paul Griggs worked
and looked forward to success, and was satisfied in his aspirations, and
more than happy in the companionship of the woman he so dearly loved.
"I shall succeed," he said quietly, but with perfect assurance. "Before
long we shall be able to leave Rome, and begin life somewhere else,
where nobody will know our story. It will not be so dull for you there."
"It is never dull when I am with you," said Gloria, but there was no
conviction in the tone any more. "If you would let me go upon the
stage," she added, with a change of voice, "things would be very
different. I could earn a great deal of money."
But Paul Griggs was as much opposed to the project as Reanda had been,
and in this one respect he really asserted his will. He was so confident
of ultimately attaining to success and fortune by his pen that he would
not hear of Gloria's singing in public.
"Besides," he said, after giving her many and excellent reasons, "if you
earned millions, I would not touch the money."
She sighed for the lost opportunities of brilliant popularity, but she
smiled at his words, knowing how she had used her own money for him, and
in spite of him. But for her own part she had lost all belief in his
talent since the failure of the book he had written.
The long summer days were hard to bear. He was not able to leave Rome,
for he was altogether dependent upon his regular correspondence for what
he earned, and he did not succeed in persuading his editors to employ
him anywhere else, for the very reason that he did so well what was
required of him where he was.
The weather grew excessively hot, and it was terribly dreary and dull in
the little apartment in the Via della Frezza. All day long the windows
were tightly closed to keep out the fiery air, both the old green blinds
and the glass within them. Griggs had moved his writing-table to the
feeble light, and worked away as hard as ever. Gloria spent most of the
hot hours in reading and dreaming. They went out together early in the
morning and in the evening, when there was some coolness, but during the
greater part of the day they were practically imprisoned by the heat.
Gloria watched the strong man and wondered at his power of working under
any circumstances. He was laborious as well as industrious. He often
wrote a page over two and three times, in the hope of improving it, and
he was capable of spending an hour in finding a quotation from a great
writer, not for the sake of quoting it, but in order to satisfy himself
that he had authority for using some particular construction of phrase.
He kept notebooks in which he made long indexed lists of words which in
common language were improperly used, with examples showing how they
should be rightly employed.
"I am constructing a superiority for myself," he said once. "No one
living takes so much pains as I do."
But Gloria had no faith in his painstaking ways, though she wondered at
his unflagging perseverance. Her own single great talent lay in her
singing, and she had never given herself any trouble about it. Reanda,
too, though he worked carefully and often slowly, worked without effort.
It was true that Griggs never showed fatigue, but that was due to his
amazing bodily strength. The intellectual labour was apparent, however,
and he always seemed to be painfully overcoming some almost unyielding
difficulty by sheer force of steady application, though nothing came of
it, so far as she could see.
"I cannot understand why you take so much trouble," she said. "They are
only newspaper articles, after all, to be read to-day and forgotten
to-morrow."
"I am learning to write," he answered. "It takes a long time to learn
anything unless one has a great gift, as you have for singing. I have
failed with one book, but I will not fail with another. The next will
not be an extraordinary book, but it will succeed."
Nothing could disturb him, and he sat at his table day after day. He was
moved by the strongest incentives which can act upon a man, at the time
when he himself is strongest; namely, necessity and love. Even Gloria
could never discover whether he had what she would have called ambition.
He himself said that he had none, and she compared him with Reanda, who
believed in the divinity of art, the temple of fame, and the reality of
glory.
In the young man's nature, Gloria had taken the place of all other
divinities, real and imaginary. His enduring nature could no more be
wearied in its worship of her than it could be tired in toiling for her.
He only resented the necessity of cutting out such a main part of the
day for work as left him but little time to be at leisure with her.
She complained of his industry, for she was tired of spending her life
with novels, and the hours hung like leaden weights upon her, dragging
with her as she went through the day.
"Give yourself a rest," she said, not because she thought he needed it,
but because she wished him to amuse her.
"I am never tired of working for you," he answered, and the rare smile
came to his face.
With any other man in the world she might have told the truth and might
have said frankly that her life was growing almost unbearable, buried
from the world as she was, and cut off from society. But she was
conscious that she should never dare to say as much to Paul Griggs. She
was realizing, little by little, that his love for her was greater than
she had dreamed of, and immeasurably stronger than what she felt for
him.
Then she knew the pain of receiving more than she had to give. It was a
genuine pain of its kind, and in it, as in many other things, she
suffered a constant humiliation. She had taken herself for a heroic
character in the great moment when she had resolved to leave her
husband, intuitively sure that she loved Paul Griggs with all her heart,
and that she should continue to love him to the end in spite of the
world. She knew now that there was no endurance in the passion.
The very efforts she made to sustain it contributed to its destruction;
but she continued to play her part. Her strong dramatic instinct told
her when to speak and when to be silent, and how to modulate her voice
to a tender appeal, to a touching sadness, to the strength of suppressed
emotion. It was for a good object, she told herself, and therefore it
must be right. He was giving his life for her, day by day, and he must
never know that she no longer loved him. It would kill him, she thought;
for with him it was all real. She grew melancholy and thought of death.
If she died young, he should never guess that she had not loved him to
the very last.
In her lonely thoughts she dwelt upon the possibility, for it was a
possibility now. There was that before her which, when it came, might
turn life into death very suddenly. She had moments of tenderness when
she thought of her own dead face lying on the white pillow, and the
picture was so real that her eyes filled with tears. She would be very
beautiful when she was dead.
The idea took root in her mind; for it afforded her an inward emotion
which touched her strangely and cost her nothing. It gained in
fascination as she allowed it to come back when it would, and the
details of death came vividly before her imagination, as she had read of
them in books,--her own white face, the darkened room, the candles, Paul
Griggs standing motionless beside her body.
One day he looked from his work and saw tears on her cheeks. He dropped
his pen as though something had struck him unawares; and he was beside
her in a moment, looking anxiously into her eyes.
"What is it?" he asked, and his hands were on hers and pressed them.
"It is nothing," she answered. "It is natural, I suppose--"
"No. It is not natural. You are unhappy. Tell me what is the matter."
"It is foolish," she said, turning her face from him. "I see you working
so hard day after day. I am a burden to you--it would be better if I
were out of the way. You are working yourself to death. If you could see
your face sometimes!" And more tears trickled down.
His strong hands shook suddenly.
"I am not working too hard--for me," he answered, but his voice trembled
a little. "One of your tears hurts me more than a hundred years of hard
work. Even if it were true--I would rather die for you than live to be
the greatest man that ever breathed--without you."
She threw her arms about his neck, and hid her face upon his shoulder.
"Tell me you love me!" she cried. "You are all I have in the world!"
"Does it need telling?" he asked, soothing her.
Then all at once his arms tightened so that she could hardly draw breath
for a moment, and his head was bent down and rested for an instant upon
her neck as though he himself sought rest and refuge.
"I think you know, dear," he said.
She knew far better than he could tell her, for the truth of his
passion shook the dramatic and artificial fabric of her own to its
foundations; and even as she pressed him to her, she felt that secret
repugnance which those who do not love feel for those who love them
overmuch. It was mingled with a sense of shame which made her hate
herself, and she began to suffer acutely.
When she thought of Reanda, as she now often did, she longed for what
she had felt for him, rather than for anything she had ever felt for
Paul Griggs. In the pitiful reaching after something real, she groped
for memories of true tenderness, and now and then they came back to her
from beyond the chaos which lay between, as memories of home come to a
man cast after many storms upon a desert island. She dwelt upon them and
tried to construct an under-life out of the past, made up only of sweet
things amongst which all that had not been good should be forgotten. She
went for comfort to the days when she had loved Reanda, before their
marriage--or when she had loved his genius as though it were himself,
believing that it was all for her.
Beside her always, with even, untiring strength, Paul Griggs toiled on,
his whole life based and founded in hers, every penstroke for her, every
dream of her, every aspiration and hope for her alone. He was splendidly
unconscious of his own utter loneliness, blankly unaware of the
life-comedy--or tragedy--which Gloria was acting for him out of pity
for the heart she could break, and out of shame at finding out what her
own heart was. Had he known the truth, the end would have come quickly
and terribly. But he did not know it. The woman's gifts were great, and
her beauty was greater. Greater than all was his whole-souled belief in
her. He had never conceived it possible, in his ignorance of women, that
a woman should really love him. She, whom he had first loved so
hopelessly, had given him all she had to give, which was herself,
frankly and freely. And after she had come to him, she loved him for a
time, beyond even self-deception. But when she no longer loved him, she
hid her secret and kept it long and well; for she feared him. He was not
like Reanda. He would not strike only; he would kill and make an end of
both.
But she might have gone much nearer to the truth without danger. It was
not his nature to ask anything nor to expect much, and he had taken all
there was to take, and knew it, and was satisfied.