Sheila had been married several months before she ceased to expect a
miracle.
She had believed that moment of high rapture when, with Ted's face
hidden against her breast, she had seemed to grasp life itself in her
ardent young hands, to be but the forerunner of greater moments--of
raptures and fulfillments compared to which the first awakening would
appear no more than a pale shadow of joy.
Marriage, in some way mysterious and beautiful, would surely alter the
world for her; nay, more, would transmute her own nature into something
stronger, richer, happier, a wedded nature, wedded in its lightest
moods, its deepest fastnesses. She would wear Ted's ring upon her very
soul, and her soul would thereby be changed and glorified.
Other wives--all wives, indeed, who marry at the dictates of their
hearts--expect as much. It is the way of women to dream and hope above
the earth's level, and now and then, in a rarely perfect mating or in
motherhood, their dreams come true. But oftenest they wait as Sheila
waited--unrewarded. And after awhile they return contentedly to the
lowland of everyday reality--where many paths are pleasant and their
fellow travelers, though not knights errant, are usually faithful and
kind.
This, after a few months, Sheila did, too. By that time she had begun
to regard the first moment of acknowledged love as unique, one from
which she had no right to ask more than itself. It was enough to have
had it. It _had_ been life--of that she was still convinced--but life
at its high tide. And the very existence of every day--of tranquil
affection and homely duty--was none the less life, too, and good after
its own fashion.
So, missing the miracle, she set to work to discover a miracle in what
she had; to find exquisite meanings in the fire upon her wedded hearth
while her wedded soul remained cold and virginal. And she had the
better chance to warm herself beside that fire because it never
occurred to her that Ted might be in the least responsible for its
limitations.
About her choice of a husband--or rather, her acceptance of the husband
whom fate had chosen for her--she had no misgivings.
"Oh, Sheila, are you sure?" Mrs. Caldwell had inquired again and again
in that heart-searching hour which had preceded her sanction of the
engagement. "Are you _sure_?"
And Sheila had been sure, triumphantly sure. Even then, with the
girl's rhapsodies ringing in her ears, Mrs. Caldwell had insisted upon
an engagement of six months--"To give the child an opportunity to break
it," she had confided to Peter. But the delay had proved unnecessary.
At the end of the period imposed Sheila had been as sure as ever, and
she was sure still. Ted loved her. Ted needed her. Of course he was
the right man for her!
If she had thought to receive more than marriage had given her, the
fault was hers, she loyally decided. She had always anticipated
miracles. She had always seen life as an enchanting fairy tale, with a
marvellous climax hidden somewhere in the chapters yet unread. But
life wasn't a fairy tale; it was merely a bit of cheerful realism, with
a happy, commonplace climax in accord with realistic standards. It
hadn't been fair to demand princes and palaces and winged delights of a
bit of realism! She knew now that her expectations had been childish
and absurd; that she had asked for more than life had to give; that the
joys of this world were simple, home-abiding things, without the wings
for heavenly flights. Not even love itself was winged, and it was
better so--for thus she need not fear lest it fly away as winged things
are wont to do. She had prayed for ecstasy--which, at best, is
fleeting. Instead she had been granted a safe and quiet happiness.
Was not destiny wiser than she?
But though she reconciled herself to the realities of life and of
marriage, she could not reconcile herself to her own unchanged spirit.
She had looked to find Sheila Kent a new being, serene, complete--and
Sheila Kent was neither.
"I'm just myself!" she admitted at last, when neither faith nor desire
had availed to transform the fiber of her soul. "I'm just myself
still. Ted used to think me a queer little girl--and I'm the same
queer self now. Other married girls are satisfied with their husbands
and their houses and--their babies--and I believed I would be, too.
But I'm not. Marriage hasn't made me over--and it isn't enough for me.
I want something wonderful--I want to _do_ something wonderful. I
want--why, I want to _write_!"
It seemed a solution of her perplexity--the conclusion that she still
wanted to write--and she seized upon it with reviving fervor. Her
gift, singling her out from other girls, was the explanation of those
unconquered spaces in her soul, spaces never destined for the foot of
any man, however dear. Genius, she had heard, was always celibate, and
her genius, or talent, lived on in her inviolate, a thing yet to be
reckoned with, yet to be appeased.
She had not written during her engagement, nor since her marriage. Not
that she had deliberately renounced her ambitions, but that her days
had been crowded with other things, with things that, for the time, she
thought more vital. Peter had remonstrated with her once or twice, but
to no avail, and when she went from the flurry of trousseau and wedding
to the more serious business of keeping house in the traditional
vine-clad cottage--Mrs. Caldwell having persisted in the wisdom of
separate establishments--he no longer protested at all. An industrious
young housekeeper and a blooming wife was obviously not to be condoled
with over thwarted aspirations. So certain unfinished manuscripts lay
forgotten in the bottom of Sheila's bridal trunk--forgotten, or at
least ignored--until the day when she fixed on them as the reason of
her vague discontent. Then she brought them forth with an eagerness
that was, perhaps, the best answer to her self-analysis. Of course she
had wanted to write; without knowing it, she must have wanted, for
months, to write! Oh, life _wasn't_ a bit of dull realism! It was a
fairy tale after all--a fairy tale of poems and novels, of gracious
publishers and an appreciative public!
She had never talked to Ted about her writing. Somehow she had always
been absorbed in his work, his ambitions. He had all the initiative
and enterprise that Shadyville, prior to his arrival, had lacked, and
his labors and successes had consumed not only his own time and
thoughts, but Sheila's as well. She admired his energy; she was
dazzled by the juggleries of his mediocre cleverness; she was proud to
help him. Like a strong, fresh wind he filled her world--and,
incidentally, he was a wind that blew away all the delicate cobwebs,
the gossamer filaments of her finer gift.
But now, for the first time since Ted's return to Shadyville, Sheila's
individuality rose up within her and claimed something for itself. She
had wanted to write--and she _would_ write. There was no reason why
she should not. Women, nowadays, were wives and artists also. Married
women had "careers" as often as the unmarried. In short, fame was
still hers to conquer!
She set about conquering it at once--that was Sheila's way--and when,
in the middle of a busy morning, some one tapped imperiously on her
closed door, she went to answer the summons with an inky finger and
dream-laden eyes. But she opened the door to a vision that dispelled
dreams by its more charming substance--a young woman whose smart,
slender figure was clothed in a mode that had not yet reached
Shadyville, and whose alert and smiling face seemed as unrelated as her
garments to the sleepy little provincial town.
"Charlotte!"
"Yes," said the vision gaily, "yes--_Mrs. Theodore Kent_!"
And then the two girls were in each other's arms, laughing and
chattering, and weeping a little, too, after the manner of
girls--especially when there has been marriage and giving in marriage
since their last meeting.
They had not seen each other for more than three years, for although
Charlotte had been in America several times during that period, she had
merely joined her family in New York for brief reunions, and had then
hastened back to Paris where she was studying singing. They looked at
each other curiously after that first embrace, and, when they were
seated in Sheila's sunny sitting-room, they fell at once into
confidences covering those three separated years. It was Charlotte, of
course, who had food for conversation, but Sheila, as the bride, was
the heroine of the occasion, even to Charlotte's broader mind.
Marriage may not fulfill the ideals of high romance, but it can always
cast a halo.
"Well," said Charlotte at last, when she had heard the tale of Ted's
perfections and achievements, "well, I'll wait and see what you two
make of it before I give up my liberty."
"You wouldn't be giving up your liberty if you married the man you
loved," protested Sheila staunchly.
"Oh, I don't know about that! Suppose I married a man who resented my
music?"
"But he wouldn't--if he loved you!"
"Oh! Then Ted doesn't mind your writing?"
"Of course not!" Sheila assured her. "Why, I was writing when you
came!" And she held up the inky finger.
Charlotte surveyed the finger with evident respect: "That's right! I'm
glad you aren't going to be submerged by marriage. I was afraid you
might be. And really, Sheila, you have talent. The 'F---- Monthly'
would never have taken that story of yours if it hadn't been
exceptionally good. I know Mr. Bennett, the associate editor, and his
standards----"
"You _know_ Mr. Bennett?" interrupted Sheila. And her tone was
reverent.
"Yes," said Charlotte carelessly. "I know a lot of writing folks in
New York. In fact I've brought one of them home with me--Alice North,
the novelist. Maybe you've read something of hers?"
"_Something_? Why, I've read everything of hers I could lay my hands
on! Oh, Charlotte, I _adore_ her!"
"So do I," laughed Charlotte, "not her books, but her. She writes very
well, but she's more interesting than her stories. Now, Sheila, I'll
tell you what you must do--you must let me have some of your things to
show her! She could be such a help to you if she found you worth the
trouble. Let me have a story or two now, and come up to-morrow
afternoon to tea--and to hear what she thinks of them."
Sheila caught her breath. "Oh, it's too presumptuous," she demurred,
shyly. "For _me_ to bother _Alice North_!"
Her eyes were shining, nevertheless, as if at sight of a long-promised
land, and Charlotte presently departed with a couple of manuscripts for
the touchstone of Mrs. North's criticism.
When Ted came home that evening, he found a Sheila tremulous with
excitement, her eyes shining still, her cheeks, which were usually
pale, flushed to a vivid rose.
"Oh, Ted," she exclaimed at once, "Charlotte is back!"
"Yes," he assented good-naturedly, "I heard about it this morning and
gave her a write-up with a picture." For Ted invariably looked upon
events in the terms of their newspaper value.
"Did you know that she brought Alice North home with her?"
"Alice North?"
Apparently he had not the slightest idea who Alice North might be.
"Yes--Alice North--the novelist, Ted!"
"Is she anybody special--anything of a celebrity?"
"Is she? Oh, Ted, you must read something besides newspapers! Mrs.
North hasn't been made a celebrity by the papers--somehow she's managed
to keep clear of cheap notoriety--but there's scarcely a woman writing
to-day whose work is better than hers. She is
really--_really_--distinguished!"
Instantly he was "on the job," as he would have expressed it, at that
revelation: "Well, she won't keep out of the 'Star'! I'll have a story
about her to-morrow. Confound it! I wish I'd known to-day! But the
Davises never let me know anything. I found out by accident that
Charlotte was home. And such a time as I had getting her photograph.
I don't believe that family care about their own town's paper!"
Sheila smiled. She had a pretty accurate conception of the place that
Shadyville must occupy on Charlotte's horizon--and on Alice North's.
But she only remarked soothingly, "I can tell you all about Alice
North. I've read nearly everything she's written, and a number of
magazine articles about her, too. I'll get you up a good story about
her--the sort of story she won't object to either." Then her
enthusiasm swept her from the subject of newspaper values to the true
value of Mrs. North:
"Oh, Ted, isn't it splendid for a woman to have a talent like that--a
talent that's made her famous at thirty!"
But there was no responsive enthusiasm in Ted's face, no leap of light
in the eyes that met the fire of hers. "I suppose so," he conceded
grudgingly, "yes, I suppose it is. But I don't care for that sort of
woman myself--at least for that sort of married woman."
"But why, Ted? Why? Her work doesn't interfere with her loving her
husband!"
"It interferes with her making a home for him. And _that's_ a woman's
work--making a home."
"But, Ted, maybe he doesn't want a home--or maybe they have a
housekeeper."
Ted shrugged: "Oh, if it suits him to live in a hotel, or at the mercy
of a hired housekeeper, it's all right. But in that case, he's missing
the best thing a man ever gets--I mean the kind of home a woman's
_love_ makes!"
At those words Sheila would have surrendered the argument--so easily
was she swayed by a touch upon her heart. But Ted was not through with
the subject. His masculine self-respect was aroused against this woman
who was succeeding outside the sphere of strictly feminine occupation,
and he was determined to show her, in her worst light, to Sheila.
"Has she any children?" he demanded belligerently.
"No--at least, I think not."
"Now you see that I'm right!" he exulted.
But the moment for yielding had passed with Sheila. "I see nothing of
the sort," she replied with a flare of temper. "Her having
children--or not having them--has no bearing whatever on the matter."
"Oh, yes, it has! You mark my words--she hasn't had any children
because she's wanted to spend all her time advancing herself--building
up a tawdry little fame for herself! I tell you, Sheila, talent's a
bad thing for a woman--a bad thing!"
"But, Ted--_I_ write."
He stared at her in naive surprise. Then his face softened into
indulgent laughter. "Why, kitty, so you do! I'd forgotten that you
scribble. But you don't take it seriously. I don't mind your playing
at it, so long as you don't get the notion that it's the biggest thing
in life." And he laughed again and pinched her cheek--reassuringly.
She didn't laugh in answer, however. She only gazed at him with an odd
intentness, as if she were seeing him for the first time. Then,
gravely, she inquired: "What would you think the biggest thing in life,
Ted--if you were a woman--a woman like Alice North?"
He drew her down to his knee and whispered into her ear. She was very
still for an instant, her whole body subdued, spellbound, by that
whispered word. Then, with a movement singularly untender, she
withdrew from his arms and stood erect--free--before him. The rich
scarlet still flooded her cheek--now like a flag of reluctant
womanhood--but he searched her eyes in vain for the glow that should
have matched it.
"Well--you'll think so some day!" he insisted gently.