THE PENITENT PIRATE.
WAYLAND had the commercial instinct too strongly developed not to fear
that he was paying an exorbitant price for a fancy which would probably
be as passing as it was powerful. Whenever Emily was not before his
eyes he was pushing the bill angrily aside. But in the stubbornness of
self-indulgence he refused to permit himself to see that he was making
a fool of himself. If she had not gauged him accurately, or, rather,
if she had not mentally and visibly shrunk even from the contact with
him necessary to shaking hands, he might quickly have come to his
cool-blooded senses. But their engagement made no change in their
relations. Her mother’s illness helped her to avoid seeing him for
more than a few minutes at a time. Her affectation of an extreme of
prudery--with inclination and policy reinforcing each the other--made
her continue to keep herself as elusive, as tantalising to him as she
had been at that dinner when he “fell head over heels in love--” so he
described it to her. And he thoroughly approved of her primness. For,
to him there were only two classes of women--good women, those who knew
nothing; bad women, those who knew and, knowing, must of necessity feel
and act as coarsely as himself. The most of the time which he believed
she was devoting to her mother, she was passing in her room in arguing
the two questions: “How can I give him up? How can I marry him?”
Her acute intelligence did not permit her to deceive herself. She knew
with just what kind of man she was dealing, knew she would continue to
loathe him after she had married him, knew her reason for marrying him
was as base, if not baser, than his reason for marrying her. “He is at
least a purchaser,” she said to herself contemptuously, “while I am
merely the thing purchased.” And her conduct was condemned by her whole
nature except the one potent instinct of feminine laziness. “If only I
had been taught to work,” she thought “or taught not to look down upon
work! Yet how could it be so low as this?”
She felt that she might not thus degrade herself if she had some
one to consult, some one to encourage her to recover and retain her
self-respect. But who was there? She laughed at the idea of consulting
her mother--that never strong mind, now enfeebled to imbecility by
drugs and novels. And even if she had had a capable mother, what
would have been her advice? Would it not have been to be “sensible”
and “practical” and not fling away a brilliant “chance”--wealth and
distinction for herself, proper surroundings and education for the
children that were sure to come? And would not that advice be sound?
Only arguments of “sentimentality,” of super-sensitiveness, appeared
in opposition to the urgings of conventional everyday practice. And
was not Stoughton worse than Wayland? Could it possibly be more
provocative of all that was base in her to live with Stoughton than to
live with Wayland? Wayland would be one of a great many elements in her
environment after the few first weeks of marriage. If she accepted the
alternative, it would be her whole environment, in all probability for
the rest of her life.
A month after the announcement of the engagement, her mother sank into
a stupor and, toward the end of the fifth day, died. Just as her father
had been missed and mourned more than many a father who deserved and
received love, so now her mother, never deserving nor trying to deserve
love, was missed and mourned as are few mothers who have sacrificed
everything to their children. This fretful, self-absorbed invalid was
all that Emily had in the world.
Wayland was startled when Emily threw herself into his arms and
clinging close to him sobbed and wept on his shoulder. Sorrow often
quickens into sympathy the meanest natures. The bereaved are amazed to
find the world so strangely gentle for the time. And Wayland for the
moment was lifted above himself. There were tenderness, affection in
his voice and in the clasp of his arms about her.
“I have no one, no one,” she moaned. “Oh, my good mother, my dear
little mother! Ah, God, what shall I do?”
“We will bear it together, dear,” he whispered. “My dear, my beautiful
girl.” And for the first time he genuinely respected a woman, felt the
promptings of the honest instincts of manliness.
His change had a profound effect upon the young girl in her mood of
loneliness and dependence. She reproached herself for having thought so
ill of him, for having underrated his character. With quick generosity
she was at the opposite extreme; she treated him with a friendliness
which enabled him to see her as she really was--in all respects except
the one where desperation was driving her to action abhorrent to her
normal self.
As her sweetness and high-minded intelligence unfolded before his
surprised eyes, he began to think of her as a human being instead of
thinking only of the effect of her beauty upon his senses. He grew to
like her, to regard her as an ideal woman for a wife. But--he did not
want a wife. And as the new feeling developed, the old feeling died
away.
Emily had gained a friend. But she had lost a lover.
Two weeks after her mother’s funeral, Wayland kissed her good-night as
calmly as if he had been her brother. At the gate he paused and looked
back at the house, already dark except in one second-story room, where
Emily’s aunt was waiting up for her. “I am not worthy of her,” he said
to himself. “I am not fit to marry her. I should be miserable trying to
live up to such a woman. I must get out of it.”
But how? He pretended to himself that he was hesitating because of his
regard for her and her need for him. In fact his hesitation arose from
doubt about the way to escape from this most uncongenial atmosphere
without betraying to her what a dishonourable creature he was. And
the more he studied the difficulty, the more formidable it seemed.
This however only increased his eagerness to escape, his alarm at the
prospect of being tied for life to moral and mental superiority.
He hoped she would give him an excuse. But as she now liked him, she
was the better able to conceal the fact that she did not love him; and
had he been far less unskilled in reading feminine character, he would
still have been deceived. Emily was deceiving herself--almost.
As soon as he felt that he could leave with decency, he told her he
must go to New York. She had been noting that he no longer spoke of
their marriage, no longer urged that it be hastened. But it occurred to
her that he might be restrained by the fear of distressing her when her
mother had been dead so short a time; and this seemed a satisfactory
explanation. Three days after he reached New York he sent this
letter--the result of an effort that half-filled the scrap-basket in a
quiet corner of the writing-room of his club:
I have been thinking over our engagement and I am convinced that when
you know my mind, you will wish it to come to an end. I am not worthy
of you. You are mistaken in me. I could not make you happy. You
are too far above me in every way. It would be spoiling your whole
life to marry you under such false pretences. Looking back over our
acquaintance, I am ashamed of the motives which led me to make this
engagement. Forgive me for being so abrupt, but I think the truth is
best.
“Pretty raw,” he thought, as he read it over. “But it’s the truth and
the truth _is_ best in this case. I can’t afford to trifle. And--what
can she do?”
When Emily finished reading the letter, she was crushed. Her pride, her
vanity, her future--all stabbed in the vitals. Just when she thought
herself most secure, she was overthrown and trampled. She could see
Stoughton gloating over her--who would have thought that Stoughton
could ever reach and touch _her_? She could see herself pinioned there,
or in some similar Castle Despair, for life.
To be outwitted by such a man--and how? She could not explain it. Her
experience of ways masculine had not been intimate enough to give her
a clue to the subtle cause of Wayland’s changed attitude. She paced
her room in fury, denouncing him as a cur, a traitor, a despicable
creature, too vile and low for adequate portrayal in any known medium
of expression. She went over scheme after scheme for holding him to
his promise, for bringing him back--some of them schemes which made
her blush when she recalled them in after years. She wrote a score of
letters--long, short; bitter, pleading; some appealing to his honour,
some filled with hypocritical expressions of love and veiling a vague
threat which she hoped might terrify him, though she knew it was
meaningless. But she tore them up. And after tossing much and sleeping
a little she sent this answer:
DEAR EDGAR:
Certainly, if you feel that way. But you mustn’t let any nervousness
about the past interfere with our friendship. That has become very
dear to me. The only ill luck I wish you is that you’ll have to come
to Stoughton soon. I won’t ask you to write to me, because I know
you’re not fond of writing letters--and nothing happens here that any
one would care to hear about. My aunt is staying with me for a few
months at least. Until I see you,
EMILY.
“It’s of no use to make a row,” she thought. “If anything can bring
him back, certainly it is not tears or reproaches or threats. And how
appeal to the honour of a man who has no honour?”
Her mind was clear enough, but her feelings were in a ferment. She
knew that it was in some way her fault that she had lost him. “And I
deserved to lose him,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t excuse him or
help me.”
He answered promptly:
MY DEAR FRIEND:
How like you your letter was. If I did not know so well how unworthy
of you I am, how I would plead for the honour of having such a woman
as my wife. I wish I could look forward to seeing you soon--but
I’m going abroad on Saturday and I shan’t return for some time. As
soon as I do, I’ll let you know. It is good of you to offer me your
friendship. I am proud to accept it. If you ever need a friend, you
will find him in
Yours faithfully,
EDGAR WAYLAND.
The expression of Emily’s face was anything but good, it was the
reverse of “lady-like,” as she read this death-warrant of her last
hope. “The coward!” she exclaimed, and, as her eyes fell on the
satirical formality, “Yours faithfully,” she uttered an ugly laugh
which would have given a severe shock to Wayland’s new ideas of her.
“Fooled--jilted--left for dead,” she thought, despair closing in, thick
and black. And she crawled into bed, to lie sleepless and tearless, her
eyes burning.