The Love Affairs of an Old Maid Part 10

XI

THE HAZARD OF A HUMAN DIE

"The tallest trees are most in the power of the wind."

Last night at the theatre there were theatricals all over the house. My eyes followed the play on the stage, but my mind was filled with the farce in the next box and with the tragedy in the one opposite.

I was with the Ford-Burkes, and, hearing familiar voices, I pulled aside the curtain, and in the next box were the Payson Osbornes, Pet Winterbotham, and Jack Whitehouse. Pet thrust her hand over the railing and whispered,

"I'm engaged. Put your hand here and feel the size of my ring. You can get an idea of it through my glove. I'd take it off and show it to you, only I think it would look rather p.r.o.nounced, don't you?"

"Rather," I a.s.sented faintly.

I glanced beyond her into the fresh blue eyes of young Jack Whitehouse, and I wondered if the alert, manly young fellow, with his untried but inherited capabilities, knew that he had been accepted as a husband because his hair curled and he looked "chappie."

"I suppose you have heard the news, haven't you?" she went on.

"Nothing in particular. What news?"

"Look across the house and you will see."

Just entering their box opposite were Louise King and Norris Whitehouse, Jack's uncle.

"What do you mean?" I asked, with a wrench at Pet's little hand which made her wince.

"It's an engagement. Uncle and nephew engaged the same season. Isn't it rich? Think of Louise King being my aunt. She is only twenty-three."

Then they saw us and bowed. I felt faint as my mind adjusted itself to this new arrangement. I levelled my gla.s.s at them.

Louise, magnificently tall and handsome, looked quite self-contained. She is one of the best-bred girls I know, but it required a stronger imagination than mine to fathom what mysterious change had transformed her from the impulsive, loving creature of Charlie Hardy's story to this serene-eyed woman, who had deliberately elected to marry at the funeral of her own heart.

As I looked across at her during that long evening, I felt that it was impertinent to probe her heart with my wonderings and surmises. I knew instinctively just how carefully she was hiding her hurt from all human eyes. I knew how her fierce pride was bearing up under the cruelty of it.

I felt how she had rushed from the humiliation one man had brought her to the waiting love of the one who should have been her first choice by the divine right of natural selection. This strong man had loved her for years, but he would never allow her to imperil either his dignity or her own. He was just the man her impulsive, high-strung nature could accept as a refuge, beat against and buffet if need be, then learn to appreciate and cling to.

I had an impression that he was not totally ignorant of the state of affairs. He was older and wiser than she, and capable of the bravery of this venture. No, he was not being deceived. I was sure of it. Louise was too high minded to attempt it. She would be scornfully honest with him.

Her scorn would be for herself, not for him, and he had accepted her joyfully on these terms. His daring was tempered with prudence, and his clear vision doubtless forecast the end. His insight must have shown him that, with a girl like Louise, the rebound from the self-disdain to which Charlie Hardy's confession must have reduced her would be as intense as her humiliation had been, and that her pa.s.sionate grat.i.tude to the man who restored her self-respect would be boundless. Not every man--not even every man who loved her--could do this. He must possess strong nerves who descends into a volcano. He must have a more unbending will who tames any wild thing; but what an intoxicating thrill of pride must come to him who, having confidence in his own powers, makes the attempt and succeeds.

Perhaps if Louise had been strong enough to fight this cruel battle out with herself as Rachel would have done, and win as Rachel would have won, she might have been able to choose differently. She might then, strong in her own strength, marry a man of lesser personality, a younger man, and they two could have adjusted their lives to each other gradually. Now it must be Louise who would be adjusted, and Norris Whitehouse was just the man to know the curious fact that the more fiery and impetuous a woman is, the more easily, if she is in love, will she mould herself to circ.u.mstances. The more untamed and unbending she seems, the more helpless will she be under the strong excitement of love or grief.

A strong-minded woman is easier to persuade than a weak one. The grander the nature the greater its pliability towards truth. The longer I sat and gazed into the opposite box the clearer it grew in my mind that the suddenness of this venture did not imply rashness, but serene-eyed faith only, and such faith would captivate Louise King more than would love. The only impossible thing about it to a sceptical Old Maid was that it was the man who was proving himself such a hero, and who was upsetting my favorite theory that men never understand emotional women. Still, it was not difficult to except as unusual a man like Norris Whitehouse, and yet have my theory hold good. In imagination I leaped forward to the peaceful outcome of this turbulent beginning, and overlooked the way which led to it. I found myself hoping, with painful intensity, that this venture in which Norris Whitehouse and I had embarked would prove successful. I had known and loved Louise King all her life. I had loved her dear mother before her, and the beautiful daughterhood of this girl had always touched me as the highest and sweetest type I ever had known. I did not want to be the one to bring her face to face with her first great sorrow, although I dared not interfere to less purpose. For

"'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, And matter enough to save one's own.

Yet think of my friend and the burning coals We played with for bits of stone."

They could not know that I had had anything to do with it; yet, if ill came of it, I should blame myself all the rest of my life.

Not long afterwards they were married very quietly and went away for a few weeks. When they returned I sought Louise with eagerness, and found that my fears were not groundless. I tried to think what to do. If it would have eased matters, I would willingly have gone to her and confessed that I instigated Charlie Hardy's confession. But I felt that the root of the matter lay deeper than that, so I said nothing that could be construed into an unwelcome knowledge of her affairs.

In the short time which elapsed between their return and the date set for their departure for Europe, where they were to stay a year, I saw Louise continually. She sought me as if she liked to be with me, although her eyes never lost the anxious, hunted expression which you sometimes see in the eyes of some trapped wild creature.

It was a raw morning, with a chill wind blowing, when their steamer was to sail. Mr. Whitehouse, thinking I might have some last private word to say to Louise, skilfully detached everybody else and strolled with them beyond earshot, but where his eyes could continually rest upon his wife's face.

As Louise and I walked up and down I took in mine the small hand which emerged from the great fur cuff of her boat cloak, and gradually its rigidity relaxed under my friendly pressure. I remembered, as I occasionally tightened my grasp upon it, that my dear little baby sister Lois, who was taken away from us before she outgrew her babyhood, used to squeeze my hand in this fashion, and when I asked her what it meant, she invariably said, "It means dat it loves you." I wondered if the same inarticulate language could be conveyed to poor, suffering Louise.

Suddenly she turned to me and said,

"You have thrown something gentle, a softness around me this morning. I can feel it. What is it, Ruth?"

"I don't know, dear, unless it is my love for you."

"It is something more. Your eyes look into mine as if you knew all about it and wished to comfort me."

As I made no answer, she turned and looked down at me from her superb height.

"Tell me," she said quite gently; "I shall not be angry. Tell me, _do_ you know?"

"Yes, Louise, I know."

She hesitated a moment as if she really had not believed it. Then she said slowly,

"If any other person on earth except you had told me that, I should die. I could not live in the knowledge. But you--well, your pity is not an insult somehow."

"Because it is not pity, Louise," I said steadily. "There is a difference between pity and sympathy. One is thrown at you--the other walks with you."

She only pressed my hand gratefully. Suddenly she turned and said impulsively,

"Then you must know how utterly wretched I am."

Glancing over her shoulder I could see the eyes of her husband fastened upon her with an expression which stirred me to put forth my best efforts.

Then it came over me how pent-up all this intensity of feeling must be. I realized how impossible it would seem to her to speak of it. Taking my life in my hand--for I was mortally afraid--I rushed in, after the manner of my kind, where angels fear to tread.

"Did you love him then so much?"

The pupils of her eyes enlarged until they were all black with excitement.

She caught both my hands in hers.

"Only G.o.d Himself knows how I loved him," she whispered.

I knew then that all Charlie had said was true, and, weak coward that I was, if I could have undone the past, I would have given him back to her.

I was borne away by a glimpse of such love. O Charlie Hardy! And you cast this from you for a pair of blue eyes!

"How came you to love such a weak man?" I asked tremblingly.

"That is what I want to know. How could I? How can girls of my sort love so hopelessly beneath us? I've thought and wondered over that question until my brain has almost turned, and the only consolation I find is that I am not the only one. Other women, cleverer than I, have loved the most contemptible of men and have been deceived just as I was. Oh, if he or I had only died before I discovered the truth! If I could have mourned him honorably and felt that my grief was dignified! But I won't allow myself to grieve over him. I tell myself that I am well out of it and that I ought to be glad. But instead of gladness there is a dull, miserable ache in my heart, which I feel even in my sleep. Not for him; I don't mourn for him, but for myself--for my fallen idols and my shattered ideals. What will such men have to answer for? I doubt if I ever can believe in anything human again."