"I am afraid of pain; but when the time comes I shan't wait for it. I
shall go out to meet it."
"What do you mean?"
He seemed another creature, all steel and fire, not an impersonal thing
speaking out of the dark.
"Don't you know we all want something big, something bigger than we are
to fight and conquer? Before we leave this earth, we want to make our
mark on it, that shall not be washed away."
"Are you ambitious?"
"I don't know. I do know I mean to live--when I am free."
Alarm was quickening in her. He seemed to be withdrawing into dark halls
where she could not see to follow. He was building the house of his
heart, yet there were apparently other edifices, fortresses or dungeons,
it might be, where he walked alone.
"When you are free?" she insisted.
"When Pete has got his gait and I needn't back him. When grannie is
dead--dear grannie! Then I shall do my one free act."
She was so shaken that it seemed as if the night itself terrified her,
not he alone.
"Not"--she paused, and then whispered it. "Do you mean--to kill
yourself?"
He laughed.
"Not on your life! I am going to get all that's coming to me. But I am
going to get it in my own particular way."
"I cannot understand you."
"Of course you can't. But remember all of you have something to bring to
life. You give as well as take. You have your beauty and your voice.
Peter has his brush. Grannie has her mothering gift. That's better than
being a queen. There's power in it. Your prince has his inheritance. I
have had to look about and choose my gift. I chose it long ago."
"Is it something that makes you happy?"
"It made me wild when I discovered it, because I saw it was mine.
Nothing had ever been mine before. As it comes nearer and nearer, it
looks pretty grim to me. But it's mine, still. When men used to go out
to fight, they must have said a good many times, 'This is a nasty
situation, but it's my quarrel.' And this is mine."
She felt her loneliness. At once it seemed that she had not yet known
the real man. Their play at friendship, sympathy,--what was it?--had
been only play. Like all men, he could bring the woman a flower, a crown
even, "a rosy wreath," but the roses must wither while he chose his
sword. She could not speak.
"What is it, playmate?" he asked presently. It was the old kindly voice.
"I must go back. I'm cold."
"Cold! It's warm to-night."
"Good-night."
He followed her.
"I did it. I chilled you somehow. Forgive me."
She could not speak, and he was at her side.
"I know. There are things that can't be talked about. They sound like
twaddle. These things I've told you--they're well enough to think about.
They can't be said. You're disappointed in me!"
But it was not that he had told her too much; he had told her too
little. He had put her away from him.
"Good-night," she said again. "It's all right, playmate, truly."
His anxious voice came after her.
"It's not all right. I've muddled it."