She nodded, with compressed lips.
“He has been pretty bad, but I really think he is sobering up. When I
left him, he seemed to have himself under control. And he gave me his
word that he would be sober at two, when I go back.”
She seemed to be musing, in a depressed fashion. Then she glanced up,
met my eye, and tried to look brighter. “The trouble with him is,” she
said, “you can never be sure.”
“I know,” I replied, “but I could n't refuse to give him three
hours--less than three hours. You see, dear, there is no pressure
I could bring upon him. I have n't even the advantage of physical
strength. And, really, you know, when you come right down to it, my
whole position was the weakest possible--I had absolutely no right to
talk to him like that.”
We fell silent again. Finally she turned squarely around, and leaned
against the casement, and gave me her hand. I saw then that there were
tears in her eyes, and deep sorrow, but about her mouth there were
evidences of a strong determination that explained why the tears did not
come.
We looked at each other.
“Tell me,” she said, “what becomes of you in this arrangement?”
“Oh,” I replied, “I stay here and do my work. There is just one thing
I am going to ask of you, Heloise--will you help me make the scales
again?”
She looked surprised, I thought: and her mouth twisted 'nto the faintest
of smiles. Then she nodded. “Yes,” she said, “we will make the scales.”
“Don't you see,” she went on, “that what you are trying to do brings us
closer together than years of ordinary, selfish love-making?”
“Yes,” said I, “in a way.”
“In every way,” said she. “Are you blind, Anthony? Can't you see how you
are making me love you?”
I tore my hands away from her. I could not stand it. But my brain was
still dear, thank God!
“Heloise--dear!” I cried, “this only makes it harder. We must play fair.
We must see it through. If he goes back to America, then you must go to
Paris, and I must stay here.”
“What if I should refuse to go to Paris?” said she, still looking at me.
“You will not do that,” I answered her. “For it is the condition on
which he will set you free.”
“Then what is to prevent my waiting for you there--one year, two years?”
“You will be too busy to wait--you will be working, growing,
changing--yes, you will change. You will not need me then. Your life
must not stand still because of a man who loved you away out here in
Peking,”--I said this as steadily as I could,--“it must go on, and on,
and--”
“Oh,” said she, “you think I would do that. You think I would change.”
I nodded. “Life is change. And you are full of life. Sad as you have
been, dear, I can see that. I am a narrow man. If you came to me,
I would be weak enough to want you by me, in my home. I should
want--children. I should want you to be my wife, my helpmate, my--”
“Well...” she breathed, with shining eyes.
“No, Heloise, whatever you may think now, I could never forget what I
should be shutting you out from, and it would make me unhappy. Don't you
see, dear? You must follow your own genius. That is what I am trying
to help you do.” And I added sadly, “It is the only way out for you,
anyway, because it is the only course that he will agree to--if he
should agree to anything.”
“Oh, Anthony,” she said, “is all that true? Is it just the old conflict
between one's own personal life and the career that one is drawn to?
Don't you suppose I could give my life to helping you and be happy in
it--so happy that it would make you happy too? Thinking of those days
that we spent working together, it has seemed that way to me. Just
to-day it has seemed so.”
I shook my head. “You have a great gift in your voice, Heloise. It must
be used. It must grow greater. You are unsubmissive, a rebel; which is
precisely what an artist must be. You have the spirit of a fine artist.
You must cultivate and expand that spirit. There is nothing ahead of
you, Heloise, but work--hard, hard work. And loneliness. That is the lot
of the artist. But it will bring its compensations. And even the work
itself is a great opportunity.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “I know that.”
“And you must not weaken, dear. You have headed that way--you must go
straight on now. And I will live in your success.”
“Does it really come down to that, Anthony?”
“It comes down to that. You've got to do it, anyway--you have no choice.
I am only bringing up these reasons now because they may help you to
think it out.”
“Perhaps this is my real punishment,” she observed, “losing you just
when I have found you.” And then the tears came to her eyes again.
“Perhaps,” said I. “Perhaps not. If so, it is a punishment for being
alive, since, one way or another, every human being must face it.
Every life has to be lived, you know, dear. It is hard to live a
life--straight through to its end. It is still harder if one fails to
live it.... And then, this applies to me, as to you. There is no more
reason that you should give up the proper direction of your life than
there is that I should give up mine and follow you.”
“Oh,” she said, with a little gasp, “I never thought of that!”
“It is so, Heloise. We are both positive natures. We have each a life to
live. Let us try to live them honestly and thoroughly. Perhaps, in doing
that, each will one day make the other happy and proud.”
We paused. And then Heloise, being a woman, turned swiftly back to the
practical aspect of the problem.
“But, Anthony,” she broke out, “you don't for a minute suppose that I
would let you undertake all that expense for me? You don't really think
I would accept it?”
Now it had to come; the money business, that I had shrunk from
mentioning when I told her of my talk with Crocker.