Part 16 (1/2)

”And do let the biscuits stop the argument.”

They laughed and sat down to a silent meal. When it was ended, and the men took their cigarettes to the fireplace, she said: ”I wish you would both do me a favor to-day.”

”We will! Name it!” They spoke at the same time.

She turned toward them with an earnestness which she had scarcely meant to betray.

”Go out, both of you, and leave me here alone a while.”

Lawrence was silent. Her words and her tone sent a sharp pain through him, and he wondered if she were ill. He wanted to say something to her, started to do so, checked himself, and laughed embarra.s.sedly.

Philip stared at her. He noticed the pale face and the dark rings under her eyes.

”Why, certainly,” he said, and rose. ”You aren't looking well, Claire.

Is anything seriously wrong?” He looked at her again with the same unconsciously tender warmth in his eyes.

She saw it, flushed angrily, wanted to scream at him, and said simply, ”No, I just want to think, and want it quiet. You two talk too much about yourselves and about things that you don't understand.”

”Very true”--Lawrence also had risen--”if I did understand them, I'd show humanity how to stop being animals and be men.”

”While as it is,” she said nervously, ”you allow them to blunder along and help the good work out by making plenty of trouble for them by your own blind shortness of vision.”

He stood, wondering at her. How had he unintentionally hurt her, and what exactly did she mean?

Philip laughed heartily. ”A just judgment on him for his sorry view of the world,” he commented, opening the door.

”We'll tramp back into the hills,” he said to Lawrence when they were both outside, ”and see what there is of deficient imagination in them.”

”There isn't,” Lawrence said quietly; ”they and the ocean are testimonials to the real potential power of an otherwise very faulty artist.”

Left alone, Claire worked furiously at setting the house to rights. Her nervous state led her to throw herself into the work with an energy that kept her from thinking. She sought for things to do with the desperation of a person whose only escape from the furies that followed him is utter physical exhaustion. When the cabin had been arranged and rearranged until there was no possible excuse for further effort, she took her heavy man's coat from its place and stepped out upon the snow-covered plateau before the house.

Along its edges the lake shone milk-white in the sun, while farther out the ice glinted a clear, watery blue that made a gleaming jewel set in the sparkling snow around it. She stood gazing across the ice to the forest beyond. Its still beauty crept over her, and she breathed deeply of the cold, crisp air. Her head ached dully, and her chest felt tight as though trying to expand beyond its limit to make room for the trouble that filled her being. After standing motionless for a few moments, she started briskly across the snow toward the far side of the lake. She walked carefully over the ice and into the trees beyond. In her mind was one thought, to escape--but escape from what? From herself, she answered, and then suddenly, with a panicky bursting of the tension, she thought that is done only through death.

She stopped and let the word ”death” fill her mind, as a word sometimes does, growing and growing until its increasing weight oppresses the brain with a sense of physical pressure. ”Death”--is it an escape? She tried to imagine herself dead, and failed. She could find no adequate image to express oblivion, and she gave up trying, while she began to wonder if she actually were immortal, and if she were, what would she say to herself beyond the edge of life?

She thought of herself as standing, naked of soul, unbodied, in some far etherealized atmosphere, and she shuddered. ”I would still be Claire, loving these two men and fearing a third.” Tears crept down her cheeks.

No, she did not want to be immortal and have no escape from herself.

If she would only be able to endure the months still remaining before she got home, then everything would be settled. But would it? Did she want Lawrence to go out of her life, did she want to lose him? She could have him still as a friend, her home open to him always, her husband as glad to welcome him as she herself--yes, that would be best.

She was walking again now, rapidly, thinking as she moved, and it all seemed very clear to her. She would tell her husband how Lawrence had suffered, how brave he had been, and how he had carried her on and on, when death seemed inevitable. Howard would owe Lawrence a tremendous debt of grat.i.tude, and would make existence easier for him. Lawrence had had a hard life, his bitter att.i.tude showed that he deserved a less obstructed road, and she would give it to him. In their home all three would talk, laugh, and be, oh, so happy, while Lawrence could work better with his studio near her, perhaps in her own house where care could be taken of him. He would create great art there, and his bitterness would end. She would show him that her husband was understanding and imaginative. Again she stopped suddenly.

But Lawrence--would he accept? He was so independent, so doggedly determined to fight his life out while his very battling made him ironical and darkly pessimistic. She tried to imagine him agreeing to her plan, and instead she heard him say, ”I'm sorry, Claire, but I can't do it. I've got to go it alone and win or go under. I can't accept the charity you offer me in place of love. Grat.i.tude, I know, prompts you, but you owe me nothing, you paid your debt by being eyes for me. No, if we can't be lovers, we can't be anything else. I know my limitations.”

Why had she put in that about ”lovers”? He had never said anything to lead her to think he would say that. She answered herself that it was because she would want him to say it. And if he did say it, what would she answer? She would say--no, she couldn't do that--she would want to say, ”Then let us be lovers!” But that was impossible. In her own husband's home!

And what would she think of Philip when she was again in her old world?

He, also, was deserving of grat.i.tude. She stamped her foot in the snow.