Part 7 (1/2)
”Yes,” Lawrence said shortly. ”When morning comes, we'll hunt for a location.”
They ceased speaking, each occupied with his own thoughts.
Claire was asking herself what the winter would mean to her, spent with this silent man, and he was questioning how long she would continue to regard him as a mere imperfect carrier, devoid of the stuff that men are made of. Sometimes when her body was in his arms, he had wondered if she was capable of love, but always he had remembered her husband, her social life, her a.s.sumption of superior reserve, and had forced himself into a habitual att.i.tude of indifference. The strain was telling on his will, however, and often he longed to make this woman see him as he was.
He thought of the old days in his studio when he had proved himself master of blindness in his power to imagine and carry the sense of form into the carved stone. He recalled the praise of his comrades, and over all else there surged in him the swift, warm blood of the artist.
”Lawrence,” said Claire suddenly, ”at what do you value human life?”
”That depends,” he answered, ”on whose life it is.”
”Well, at what would you value mine?” she demanded.
”From varying points of view, at varying prices. From your husband's point of view, it is invaluable. From your own, it is worth more than anything else. From my point of view, it is worth as much as my own, since without you mine ceases.”
”Then your care of me and all your trouble is merely because you value your own life.”
”What else?” He moved uneasily.
She ignored that question. ”If you could get through without me, would you do it?”
”That depends on circ.u.mstances. If I could get through without you, and do it quickly, and could not get through with you”--he paused--”I should leave you behind.”
”And suppose, when I can walk, I do that myself?”
He smiled. ”As you please,” he said quietly. ”I advise you to make your estimate well, however. My hands and strength are a.s.sets which you might have trouble in doing without.”
”And do you estimate the whole of our relations.h.i.+p on a carefully itemized basis of material gain and loss?”
”Claire, isn't that your understanding, stated by yourself, of our partners.h.i.+p?”
”Yes, but--well, it's hard to estimate human companions.h.i.+p.”
”I know it.” He s.h.i.+fted nearer the fire. ”I've tried to estimate yours.”
”Indeed?” Her voice was full of interest.
”I've failed. You are worth a great deal, potentially.”
”Exactly what do you mean?”
”I mean just this”--he stood up suddenly and faced her, his shadow covering her like an ominous cloud--”that as Mrs. Claire Barkley you are worth nothing to me except eyes, and, therefore, your personality and conversation are of value only as time-fillers.”
”Go on,” she said steadily.
”But as Claire, the almost starved, ragged human being who is living with me through a prolonged war with death, you are worth everything to me--everything that I value.”
”But isn't that what I have been from the beginning?” she flashed.
He answered slowly. ”Yes--in a way.”