Peter had engaged to dine with Charlotte that night, but after his talk
with Sheila, his first impulse was to excuse himself. It seemed to him
impossible to get back, at once, to the safe level of everyday life, of
commonplace affairs. It seemed impossible, too, to meet Charlotte
without betraying embarrassment. But after an hour's solitude, he had
sufficient command of himself to fill the appointment, and he appeared
at the Davis house with all his usual placidity of manner. After all,
he had to go on as if nothing had happened, and it was as well, he told
himself, to begin immediately. That was, perhaps, the worst of secret
disasters like his and Sheila's--that one had to go on as if nothing
had happened; that one had to wear, from the first, a bright mask of
concealment. But it was, in a way, the best, too--this necessity for
taking up tangible, practical matters, for continuing duties,
obligations, enterprises that, perforce, diverted at least a part of
one's mind from the contemplation of an inner tragedy. There was
effort in having to talk, to listen intelligently, to laugh, but there
was relief, too, and the sense of safety that, when adrift on chaotic
seas, one feels at the touch of something solid. So he talked and
listened and laughed with conscientious care. And watching Charlotte
across the dinner table, he considered Sheila's plea.
As he had said to Sheila, he thought Charlotte clever and handsome and
kind. Whole-heartedly he liked and admired her; he enjoyed her; he was
stimulated by her. He was even prepared to admit that, if she would
marry him, she might actually make something of him, middle-aged though
he was. His attainments, his really brilliant qualities of mind, were
there to build with--and she was, by nature, a builder. He could see
her taking hold of his life and creating out of its hitherto negative
stuff a thing worth while. He could see her thus active for him and
with him, and feel a certain pleasure in the picture. To think of
himself as dear to a woman like Charlotte could not but touch a man
pleasantly and warmly. And yet, thus touched, thus drawn, he knew
still that his whole-hearted admiration and liking would never be
followed by whole-hearted love. His passion for Sheila had gone too
deep to be effaced. Unhappily for himself, he was not one of those
whose heart can be enlisted sincerely more than once. He looked across
the table at Charlotte and noted the strong, rich gold of her hair, the
dark, definite blue of her eyes, the gracious lines of her shoulders;
he heard her clear, positive, courageous voice, her blithe laughter; he
looked and listened and thought of her as his--and his heart clung to
its dream of a woman far less compellingly vital and lovely. Against
Charlotte's vivid reality, he set a little ghost with a pale face and
wistful gray eyes and a plaintive voice, a little ghost too sensitive
to be quite strong, too shy to be self-confident and self-sufficient,
too tender to be altogether brave; and with this very sensitiveness,
this shyness, this uncourageous tenderness, the little ghost held him.
She held him because her eyes were wistfully gray instead of
triumphantly blue, because her voice was hauntingly plaintive instead
of firmly buoyant; she held him because in her soul there was a strain
of weakness, of timidity, of childlike helplessness and innocence that
to him was at once piteous and exquisite. She held him by all those
qualities--and shortcomings--most unlike Charlotte. He saw that
Charlotte was, as Sheila had asserted, just the woman for a man of his
indolent, dallying temperament; he saw that he needed such a woman.
But he saw, too, that Sheila needed him, that she had always needed
him, that she would always need him; and from that consciousness of her
need he could not wrench himself free.
He would never be free of his little, pale ghost. If he married
Charlotte, it would be for Sheila's sake. _If_ he married
Charlotte----!
Well, he might marry Charlotte. Sheila had said that he could, and
perhaps she had been right. In these later years, since Charlotte had
been a woman, a cordial friendship had sprung up between them.
Whenever she had been in Shadyville, he had been much with her, and in
her absences there had been letters. For several years, whether in
Shadyville or away, she had been a presence in his life; they had many
tastes and interests in common; she was kind to him--encouragingly
kind. It seemed probable that he could marry her; at least there was
ground for trying to do so. Yet how could he offer less than his best
to a creature so fine, so honest, so loyal as he knew Charlotte to be?
That something weighed on his mind, that he was observing her with
unwonted gravity, Charlotte perceived before the dinner was over.
Afterward she took him with her into the garden and they sat down there
in the mild spring night, surrounded by flowers, regarded by
innumerable stars. The night, the flowers, the stars, all appeared to
be conspiring for Charlotte. They created an atmosphere of poetry for
her; they threw over her a glamour that, with her obvious type of
beauty, her downright and positive nature, she had missed. It was as
if the night, with its stars and flowers, were striving to invest her
with that subtler allurement which, in Sheila, was so poignant and
enchanting to Peter. And instinctively Charlotte took up the night's
cue; sat a little in shadow; spoke with unusual softness.
"What have you been thinking of so seriously all evening?" she asked.
"I've been wondering," said Peter, "whether a man whose heart is
committed, in spite of himself, to a hopeless love, has any right to
marry."
Charlotte did not answer at once; she stirred, moved deeper into
protecting shadow. "That depends, I believe, on whether he's sure that
the love his heart is committed to is really hopeless--will be hopeless
always," she replied finally.
"In the case I was considering--the man is sure of that."
"Then he would get over his unfortunate love in time--wouldn't he?
Ill-fated love does not often last forever. Life--life is more
merciful than that, isn't it?"
It was his chance with her; he realized that she was giving it to
him--giving it to him understandingly and deliberately. He had only to
agree that an "ill-fated" love--that his ill-fated love--would die at
last. But he could not take his chance like that. He could not be
less than honest with her.
"He would never get over it altogether," he said. "The woman he could
not marry would always be--dearest to him. And, granting that, would
it be fair for him to ask another woman to take what was left of--of
his affection? Would it be fair to ask her to take--a spoiled life?"
"She might feel that what was left of his life was well worth
having--the woman he _could_ marry. She might feel that--even if he
had suffered much, missed what he supremely wanted--his life need not
be spoiled after all. She might feel that she could prevent its being
spoiled. If he were frank with her, and she felt like that about it, I
think it would be fair for him to marry her--perfectly honorable and
fair."
"It could not be happiness for her," argued Peter.
"Perhaps not. Perhaps she could do without happiness."
"That would require a great love of her," said Peter gravely, "a great
love for a man who could not give a great love in return."
"Yes," she agreed, her voice very low now, but as clear and steady as
ever, "yes, it would require a great love from her. But it is not
impossible to find a woman who can feel a great love without hope of a
full return."
She was still in her sheltering shadow, but upon Peter's end of the
garden seat the moonlight, unchecked by the trees, streamed white and
strong. She looked into his face, fully revealed to her now, and she
realized, before he spoke, that he was going to refuse her sacrifice;
she realized it because she saw in his face a deeper emotion for her
than he had ever shown before. He loved her not enough--and yet too
much!--to marry her. She saw that and was prepared for his next words.
"To such a woman the man I have in mind could not give less than his
best," he said. And there was no longer any question, any hesitancy in
his tone. "To one so generous no man could be ungenerous--I should
have known that! Perhaps," he went on, with a note of distress and
apology, "perhaps such things should not be talked about. Perhaps it
is--humiliating----"
"To me the truth could never be humiliating," she answered, with quick
reassurance.
"Then it is best to speak it?" he pleaded, as if for
self-justification. "Then it is best to speak it, after all? For it
does make things--plain; it does show one the right, the decent course."
"It's best to speak it," she assented kindly; and she held out her hand
to him.
He lifted her hand and kissed it. And when he spoke again, his voice
faltered: "When a man knows a woman like you, Charlotte, he sees that
happiness--or unhappiness--doesn't matter so much as he's thought.
There are other things--better things--to live for. You've found
them--and now I'm going to find them, too, my dear."
So, for the second time that day, Peter went from a woman who loved
him. The night and the stars and the flowers had done their best to
quicken his pulses; to blur his vision of the truth; to blunt his sense
of absolute, unswerving honor. But in the end Charlotte herself had
defeated what the night was fain to do for her with its witchery; she
had defeated the night's intents with her measureless honesty and
generosity--to which Peter's own generosity and honesty could but
respond. To use a woman like Charlotte as a barrier between himself
and another woman was impossible to him. Neither for Sheila's safety,
nor for any benefit to himself, could he do a thing so base. He
recognized now that marriage with Charlotte--even without that utter
love he had given to Sheila--might be a gracious, even a happy destiny
for him. But having found her so ready to sacrifice herself, he could
not sacrifice her. He could not rob her of the chance of being loved
as she could love. Such a love might come to her some day; he could
but leave her free for it.
As he walked homeward along the silent, wide street, other gardens than
Charlotte's flung their fragrance to him; the night still whispered to
him of the sweetness of being loved, of all those compensations from
which he had turned away. But he was not allured; he was not
vanquished. His course stretched before him--through the befogging,
unmanning sweetness--to daylight and self-respect and an uncompromising
sincerity of life. It stretched before him farther than he could
descry--as far as the great fighting, suffering, achieving world. Mrs.
Caldwell had once told him that he had never grown up, and that some
day he would have to grow up; that there could be no escape for him.
She had been right about it. Until now he had not grown up. Not even
in his love for Sheila and the pain of it, had he grown up. He had
been like a child playing in a garden, and though the sweetest rose
there had torn him with its thorns, he had stayed on in the garden.
But now he was a child no longer; there had been no escape from growing
up. He had put it off a long time--more than half his lifetime
perhaps--but he had not been able to put it off forever. And now,
yielding at last, he was willing to leave his garden; he was willing to
go out into the world of men.
As he neared the hotel where he lived, he met Ted Kent, quitting his
office--going home to Sheila.
At once Ted stopped and put out his hand. For in his mind no hostility
against Peter had lingered. Indeed, on the occasion when he had
upbraided Sheila about Peter, he had felt very little animosity toward
Peter himself, and several months having passed in a strict compliance
to his wishes on Sheila's part, the whole matter had almost vanished
from his memory. His was not a nature to cherish resentment, to brood
over fancied wrongs; he liked to be at peace with all his fellow-men
and upon genial terms with them. He was animated by a distinct
cordiality toward Peter now, as he extended his hand to him.
"Been calling on the girls, Burnett?" he inquired jovially.
"On one of them," admitted Peter.
"Well, it's been a long while since I did anything like that--a long
while. And I'm not sorry either. There's nothing like your slippers
and your pipe and your paper at home! When I have to work late, as I
did to-night, it's a real hardship. Have a drink with me before I go
on?"
"Thanks," said Peter pleasantly, "but I'm in a bit of a hurry. I've
got to pack up. I'm leaving town in the morning."
"Leaving town? For a vacation?"
"No, for work. I've had a job offered me in New York. Brentwood, of
the Brentwood Publishing Company, has been asking me to come to them
for years, and I've finally decided to go."
"High-brows, aren't they--the Brentwood Company?" Ted questioned,
somewhat impressed.
"Perhaps you'd call them so. They publish real literature--a good many
translations; that's what they want me for."
"Well, well," pursued Ted, still detaining him, "and so you're going to
leave little old Shadyville for good! And after spending all your days
here, too--after making so many friends. I believe you'll miss us,
Burnett!"
"I'm sure I shall," agreed Peter, with patient courtesy.
"Then why go? It may be a good change for you in ways, but I'm
convinced there's more to be said against it than for it. For the life
of me, I can't see why you're doing it."
"No," said Peter, a little drily, "you wouldn't see, Kent. But I'm
sure it's the only thing to do. Tell Sheila I think so, please, and
that I send her my good-byes."
"You aren't going to tell her good-bye yourself?"
"I'm afraid I can't." And as Peter spoke, he was acutely conscious of
all that Ted did not see, of all that he would never understand. "I'm
afraid I can't--I start early in the morning."
"All right! You know what's best for yourself, no doubt. Sorry you
can't say good-bye to Sheila, though--she cares a lot for you, as much
as if you were one of the family. I'll give her your message, but
she'll be disappointed that you didn't deliver it yourself. Good luck
to you, old man, and don't forget us!" And shaking hands again, Ted
went cheerfully on his homeward way, serenely unaware of the
sorrow--and of the irony!--that had confronted him from Peter's quiet
eyes.
Up in his little room, Peter began to carry out his sudden plan for
leaving Shadyville. It was true that he had had an offer, more than
once, from Brentwood. Brentwood had been a chum of his at college, a
friend who had never ceased to remember and appreciate him. The offer
was still open, and it solved Peter's problem. He had told Sheila that
he would marry Charlotte or do something else that would answer as
well. He found that something else in going away.
He had not many possessions; shabby clothes--with an air to them;
shabby books--that shone with their inner grace. The books took
longest, and when he had finished packing them, it was dawn. He went
to his window and watched the slow coming of the light, and in that
silent, gray hour, he felt himself more alone than he had ever been.
Everything seemed to have been stripped from him; this town where he
had been born, and where generations of his family had been born before
him; his friends; the little room, so dismantled now, that for years
had been his home-place; all these--and his hope of happy love. He
remembered how, in his early, romantic boyhood, he had hoped for
that--for happy love; and now that hope was gone and everything was
gone with it. Everything was gone because of Sheila; he had given up
everything that she might be safe, that she might have peace--the
peace, at least, of being unafraid. He thought of her now with a calm
tenderness--as if, having given so much for her peace, he had somehow
gained peace for himself, too. And then he thought of Charlotte, and
it was for Charlotte, not for Sheila, that tears--a man's slow,
difficult tears--forced themselves into his eyes.
But Charlotte was strong. It was her strength that had roused strength
in him; strength to leave the garden, to escape the insinuating,
ensnaring sweetness of the night and go forth into the daylight world
of men.
And just then the first ray of sunlight touched his window sill,
touched it and stole within the room. The day had come; and though he
was forty-six years old and not born for fighting, a sudden elation
seized upon Peter's sad heart--as if the finger of the sunlight had
touched it, too.