"It was simply what you and I went through with when we first met--and
became engaged--and got married."
"Yes," said she. "Much the same. But--" Her eyes met his fully. "It
wouldn't be honest if I didn't say too that I do not regret--about him.
I suppose there's something wrong with me, but somehow I don't seem able
to regret anything I do--even the things I'm ashamed of--like what I
said this afternoon. It all seems part of experience. It seems
necessary. That experience with him--it helped me toward learning to
live."
She expected that he would be offended by her frankness. But he was not.
"It helped you toward learning to live," he assented, like one stating
an indisputable truth. "And it helped me. No, more than that. It
_taught_ me.... I wish the lesson could have been got in some--some
other way. Perhaps you do, too." She nodded, gazing thoughtfully
across the piano into the fire. "But," he went on, "fate doesn't let us
choose our way--or, perhaps, there's no nice, refined way of getting
one's full growth, any more than there is for a tree. It's simply got
to stand outdoors in all weathers, and learn to survive and grow strong,
no matter what comes."
"And the things that seem to hinder, often help most--and those that
look like helps are enemies."
She saw his understanding, appreciative look, though her eyes were
gazing past him; and she liked it. "We've both learned," said he. "And
we've both been put in the way of learning more. Now why shouldn't you
and I use our experience to the best advantage?"
"I intend to try," said she.
"Then it's simply a question of what is the best advantage. Isn't it
for us both to stay on here?"
"I don't think so," was her slow reply. "Not for either of us."
"But you'll listen to my reasons? Really listen, I mean. You know, you
caught my bad habit of not listening."
"Yes," she said with a forced, uneasy smile. "I'll listen."
"Well--first, there's this place. You like it, don't you? You must,
since you made it. I've found that out, too."
"I love it," she answered. "But--" She shook her head.
"Now, do try to be patient with me. You must consider all three of my
reasons together. That was only number one. Number two is Winchie."
She searched his face with swift terrified eyes. He smiled a frank and
winning reassurance that instantly convinced her. "Please put that kind
of thoughts about me out of your mind forever," he urged. "I've learned
my lesson--that the beginning of fear is the end of trust. The boy's
yours. You've got the right to him; he's got the right to you. Even if
I could do for him, it'd be my duty-- But I didn't come here this
evening to talk about duty. That's a rotten hypocrisy."
"Is this Richard Vaughan?" she cried laughingly.
"The same--minus his grandfather," replied he, eyes and voice echoing
her laugh. "No more duty for me. When anybody talks about doing his
duty, he'd better be watched. If he boasts of having done his duty he'd
better be locked up while they find out what mischief he's been at. No,
I'm out for honest, selfish inclination only. That brings me to my
third reason. I want you to stay. But--for very selfish sensible
reasons I want you to want to stay. I've gotten acquainted with you. I
need you. There's nobody who could take your place."
She smiled at what seemed to her the extravagant kindness of this.
"I mean just that," he went on. It wasn't the words he was saying; it
never is a matter of words. It was the way he said it--the force behind
the words, like the force behind the projectile. "I need you. Don't
you think you could learn to need me? A man needs a woman. A woman
needs a man. We've never given each other a fair trial. Why shouldn't
we? Now that you've taught me, I don't want you to abandon me. And why
should you begin all over again with another man?"
She sat motionless, hardly breathing, it seemed, from the stillness of
her bosom. He waited long but no answer came. He went to the big
old-fashioned chimneypiece, stood with his back to the logs; a look of
somberness came into his face. "Well," he said, "I've said my say."
There was silence in the room. He drew a long breath. "What do you
think?"
She lifted her head. With flushed face and reproachful, almost
resentful eyes she cried: "You've no right to come at me that way. You
make it hard for me to do as I wish."
"You wish to go? Then it's settled." He turned his face to the fire,
and she could not see it. "We'll not speak of this again." His voice
seemed natural; but there must have been some subtle quality in it that
set her nerves to vibrating.
"And you," she cried, "are thinking 'How mean and ungrateful she
is--after my generosity to refuse to----'"
"Not so!" he protested sharply, wheeling round. "I've not been generous.
When I told you the fault was chiefly mine, I meant it."
"When a man treats a woman as if she were a human being, it's
generosity, as the world goes," insisted she. And then the words began
to pour from her as if they had suddenly found an outlet. "You make me
feel small and mean in refusing. Oh, I'm grateful for the way you've
treated me--but I hate myself for being grateful--and I'm ashamed that
it is hateful. But I can't be different. Your generosity--your
forgiveness hurt my pride. They make me feel I'm your inferior--and I
am. But I mustn't stay where I'd feel humble. You make me ashamed to
go, but I know I've the right to go--and that I ought to go. I must!"
"Then--you are going," was his unhesitating reply. "I don't want you to
stay. I see you don't believe me--don't understand me--and no wonder.
It'd be useless to try again, unless we were both determined with all
our hearts to make a success if success was at all possible."
"And it couldn't be a success," said she, a touching melancholy in her
voice, in her deep, mysterious eyes. "For, a man doesn't want an equal
woman but a dependent--wants his woman to be like his dog. Oh, what a
world it is!--where everybody cants about self-respect, and everybody
prefers cringers to friends, fear to love!"
"Not I," said Vaughan, in the quiet forceful manner that fitted so well
his air of reserve power, of strength without strenuosity. "And that's
why I want you. Courtney, don't you see that you're free and
independent here, now? Don't you see it'd be a waste of time, a waste of
energy, for you to go away? You may not need me, but I need you--in
every way. You can get along without me. But how can I get along
without you? Where would I find a woman who could take your place?"
Her bosom was rising and falling stormily. Her eyes wandered, as if she
were desperately seeking a way of escape and had scant hope of finding
it.
"Can't you give 'us' another trial?" he asked, with proud humility.
"I cannot," she cried, starting up in her agitation. "I cannot! I must
go. There's everything here but the one thing I must have--what you
never could give me, after all that's happened--and then, there's what I
said to you this afternoon. We never could look at each other without
my feeling that you-- Oh, let's not talk about it. I must go--I must!
I cannot live without love--equal love. I must seek until I find
it--find some one who needs me--all of me--all I have to give--and must
give."
He left the hearth and faced her with the length of the piano between
them. "Could you love me?" he asked.
His voice set to vibrating nerves she had thought would never again
respond to him. She trembled, and her eyes sank. "Even if I could--you
couldn't love me. You could forgive--could be generous and kind. But
you couldn't love."
"But I do love you," he said. And she, looking at him in wonder,
thought there had never shone eyes so near to being the very soul
itself. "I began to love you when you sent Gallatin away and faced me
alone and did not lie. I came back because-- You were like the air to
me, Courtney. One isn't conscious of the air unless he hasn't it, and
can't breathe. I've loved you more and more, day by day, ever since.
And I shall love you more and more--need you more and more--every day
until I die. Courtney--can't you forgive me? I am sorry for what I
did--and--I love you."
She sank upon the piano seat, flung her slim white arms along the
keyboard, buried her face in them. "I've found it!" she sobbed. "I've
found it!"
Several discoveries in chemistry give Richard Vaughan fame, and Courtney
shares it. But they value it all at nothing beside the discovery which
gives them happiness: That the wise make of their mistakes a ladder, the
foolish a grave.