Part 50 (1/2)
Nothing could disturb him, and he sat at his table day after day. He was moved by the strongest incentives which can act upon a man, at the time when he himself is strongest; namely, necessity and love. Even Gloria could never discover whether he had what she would have called ambition.
He himself said that he had none, and she compared him with Reanda, who believed in the divinity of art, the temple of fame, and the reality of glory.
In the young man's nature, Gloria had taken the place of all other divinities, real and imaginary. His enduring nature could no more be wearied in its wors.h.i.+p of her than it could be tired in toiling for her.
He only resented the necessity of cutting out such a main part of the day for work as left him but little time to be at leisure with her.
She complained of his industry, for she was tired of spending her life with novels, and the hours hung like leaden weights upon her, dragging with her as she went through the day.
”Give yourself a rest,” she said, not because she thought he needed it, but because she wished him to amuse her.
”I am never tired of working for you,” he answered, and the rare smile came to his face.
With any other man in the world she might have told the truth and might have said frankly that her life was growing almost unbearable, buried from the world as she was, and cut off from society. But she was conscious that she should never dare to say as much to Paul Griggs. She was realizing, little by little, that his love for her was greater than she had dreamed of, and immeasurably stronger than what she felt for him.
Then she knew the pain of receiving more than she had to give. It was a genuine pain of its kind, and in it, as in many other things, she suffered a constant humiliation. She had taken herself for a heroic character in the great moment when she had resolved to leave her husband, intuitively sure that she loved Paul Griggs with all her heart, and that she should continue to love him to the end in spite of the world. She knew now that there was no endurance in the pa.s.sion.
The very efforts she made to sustain it contributed to its destruction; but she continued to play her part. Her strong dramatic instinct told her when to speak and when to be silent, and how to modulate her voice to a tender appeal, to a touching sadness, to the strength of suppressed emotion. It was for a good object, she told herself, and therefore it must be right. He was giving his life for her, day by day, and he must never know that she no longer loved him. It would kill him, she thought; for with him it was all real. She grew melancholy and thought of death.
If she died young, he should never guess that she had not loved him to the very last.
In her lonely thoughts she dwelt upon the possibility, for it was a possibility now. There was that before her which, when it came, might turn life into death very suddenly. She had moments of tenderness when she thought of her own dead face lying on the white pillow, and the picture was so real that her eyes filled with tears. She would be very beautiful when she was dead.
The idea took root in her mind; for it afforded her an inward emotion which touched her strangely and cost her nothing. It gained in fascination as she allowed it to come back when it would, and the details of death came vividly before her imagination, as she had read of them in books,--her own white face, the darkened room, the candles, Paul Griggs standing motionless beside her body.
One day he looked from his work and saw tears on her cheeks. He dropped his pen as though something had struck him unawares; and he was beside her in a moment, looking anxiously into her eyes.
”What is it?” he asked, and his hands were on hers and pressed them.
”It is nothing,” she answered. ”It is natural, I suppose--”
”No. It is not natural. You are unhappy. Tell me what is the matter.”
”It is foolish,” she said, turning her face from him. ”I see you working so hard day after day. I am a burden to you--it would be better if I were out of the way. You are working yourself to death. If you could see your face sometimes!” And more tears trickled down.
His strong hands shook suddenly.
”I am not working too hard--for me,” he answered, but his voice trembled a little. ”One of your tears hurts me more than a hundred years of hard work. Even if it were true--I would rather die for you than live to be the greatest man that ever breathed--without you.”
She threw her arms about his neck, and hid her face upon his shoulder.
”Tell me you love me!” she cried. ”You are all I have in the world!”
”Does it need telling?” he asked, soothing her.
Then all at once his arms tightened so that she could hardly draw breath for a moment, and his head was bent down and rested for an instant upon her neck as though he himself sought rest and refuge.
”I think you know, dear,” he said.
She knew far better than he could tell her, for the truth of his pa.s.sion shook the dramatic and artificial fabric of her own to its foundations; and even as she pressed him to her, she felt that secret repugnance which those who do not love feel for those who love them overmuch. It was mingled with a sense of shame which made her hate herself, and she began to suffer acutely.