HAPPINESS

I learn of Mr. Dround's intentions—A plea for myself—Despots—A woman's heart—The two in the world that are most near—Sarah's cry—Jane defends herself—To go away forever—Vows renewed

"Henry is simply furious—thinks his name has been involved—and he means to sell every share of stock he holds as soon as the agreement expires."

"I knew that he would do just that!"

Mrs. Dround threw back her coat and looked up with a mischievous smile on her face. She was a very handsome woman these days, not a month older than when I saw her first. She had reached that point where Nature, having done her best for a woman, pauses before beginning the work of destruction.

She had come this afternoon to call on Sarah, and, having failed to find her at home, was writing a note at her desk, when I came in from the day's business, a little earlier than was my wont.

"It isn't just that matter of the injunction. You know, my friend, people here in the city—Henry's friends—say that you are engaged in dangerous enterprises—that you are a desperate man yourself! Are you?"

"You know better than most!" I answered lightly. "But I am getting tired of all this talk. I had a dose of it in the family the last time."

She nodded as I briefly related what had happened with Will and May.

"And, of course, Sarah feels pretty badly," I concluded.

"Poor child!" she murmured. "I wondered what was the matter with her these days. She will feel differently later. But your brother, that is another question."

"He and his wife will never feel differently."

She tossed aside the pen she held and rose to her feet.

"Never mind! I know you don't mind really—only it is too bad to have this annoyance just now, when you have much on your shoulders. I wish I could do something! A woman's hands are always tied!"

She could say no more, and we sat for some time without further talk. I was thinking what would happen when Mr. Dround's stock was dumped on the market, to be snapped up by my enemies. Our company was very near the point of paying dividends, and with a friendly line of railroad giving us an outlet into the Southwest, the struggling venture would be in a powerful position.

"If he would wait but six months more!" I broke out at last.

She shook her head.

"Where a question of principle is involved,—"

Her lips curved ironically.

"What would you do, tell me, if a parcel of scamps were holding you up for the benefit of your enemies? Suppose you had a perfect right to do the business you had in hand. Would you put tail between legs and get out and leave your bone to the other dog?"

"If I wanted to starve, yes! I should deserve to."

"You and I think surprisingly alike very often!"

"I always liked despots," she replied. "And, as a matter of fact, despots—the strong ones—have always really done things. They do to-day—only we make a fuss about it and get preachy. No, my friend, don't hesitate! The scrupulous ones will bow to you in time."

"You would have made something of a man!"

She bowed her head mockingly.

"That is man's best compliment to poor, weak woman. But I am content, when I touch the driving hand, now and then."

After a time she added:—

"You will find the way. It is not the last ditch, far from it. A man like you cannot be killed with one blow!"

She had given the warning, done what she could, and now she trusted me to do the rest. Her will, her sympathy, were strong behind me. So when this moment was over, when she went her way and I mine, out into the world of cares and struggle, I might carry with me this bit of her courage, her sureness. I felt that, and I wanted to say it to her, to let her see that it was more herself than her good will or her help that I valued. But it was an awkward thing to say.

Her hands lay upon the desk between us. They were not beautiful hands, merely strong, close-knit—hands to hold with a grip of death. I looked at them, thinking that in her hands was the sign of her character. She raised her eyes and gazed at me steadily for several moments.

"You know how I feel?"

I nodded.

"You don't need a woman's sympathy—but I want you to know how I feel—for my own sake."

"Thank you for it. In this life a man must stand pretty much alone, win or lose. I have always found it so—except when you and I have talked things over. That hasn't been often. This is a tight place I find myself in now. But there is a way out, or if there isn't—well, I have played the game better than most."

"Even that thought doesn't give happiness," she mused. "I know, because, my friend, I, too, have stood alone all my life."

She gave me this confidence simply, as a man might.

"I suppose a woman counts on happiness," I said awkwardly in response. "But I have never counted much on that. There have always been many things to do, and I have done them, well or ill I can't say. But I have done them somehow."

It was a clumsy answer, but I could find no proper words for what I felt. Such things are not to be said. There followed another of those full silences which counted with this woman for so much more than words. Again it was she who broke it:—

"For once, only once, I want to speak out plainly! You are younger than I, my friend,—not so much in years as in other things. Enough, so that I can look at you as—a friend. You understand?"

She spoke gently, with a little smile, as if, after all, all this must be taken between us for a joke.

"From the beginning, when you and Sarah first came into our lives, I saw the kind of man you were, and I admired you. I wanted to help you—yes, to help you."

"And that you did!"

"Not really. Perhaps no one could really help you. No one helps or hinders. You work out your fate from the inside, like all the powerful ones. You do what is in you to do, and never question. But I longed for the woman's satisfaction of being something to you,—of holding the sponge, as the boys say. But a mere woman, poor, weak creature, is tied with a short rope—do you know what that means? So the next best thing, if one can't live one's self, is to live in another—some strong one. When you are a woman and have reached my age, you know that you can't live for yourself. That chance has gone."

"I don't believe it," I protested. "You are just ready to live."

She gave me a smile for my compliment, and shook her head.

"No, I don't deceive myself. Most women do. I know when I have reached the end of my chapter.... So I have followed you, step by step—oh, you don't know how closely! And I have sucked in all the joy of your success, of your power, of you—a man! I have lived a man's life."

"But you went away?" I said accusingly.

"Yes, I went away—because that would help! It was the only thing I could do—I could go away."

For the first time her voice shook with passion. I was answered.

"Now I have come back to find that my hands are tied more than ever. I can help you no more. Believe me, that is the hardest thing yet. I can help you no more! My husband—you understand? No, you need not understand. A woman is bound back and across by a thousand threads, which do not always show to the eye.... I may yet keep my husband from throwing you over, but that is no matter—the truth is I count no longer to you. If the world had been other than it is, my friend, I should have been by your side, fighting it out daily for you, with you. As it is—"

She threw up her arms in a gesture of disgust and remained silent, brooding. It was not necessary to complete the words. Nor could I speak. Something very wonderful and precious was passing before my eyes for the last time, something that had been near was floating off, would never come back. And life was so made that it was vain, useless, to try to hold it, to cry out, to do anything except to be still and feel the loss. My hands fell beside hers upon the polished surface of the desk, and we sat looking into one another's eyes, without fear. She was feeling what I was feeling, but she was looking deeper into fate than I could look. For she was wiser as a woman than I was as a man. We were the two in the world most near, and between us there was a gulf that could not be crossed. The years that are to come, my heart said to me then, will be longer than those that have passed.

"Listen," she whispered, as though she were reading my thoughts. "We shall never need more than this. Remember! Nothing more than this. For I should be a hindrance, then, not a help. And that would be the end of me, indeed. You have your will to work, which is more than any woman could give you. And I have the thought of you. Now I must go away again—we have to live that way. It makes no difference: you and I think the same thoughts in the same way. What separation does a little distance put between you and me? I shall follow after you step by step, and when you have mounted to the broad level that comes after accomplishment, you will be glad that it has been as I say, not different. It is I that must long. For you need no woman to comfort and love you!"

It was finished, and we sat in the deepening twilight beyond words. The truth of what she had spoken filled my mind. There was nothing else for us two but what we had had: we had come to the top of ourselves to know this, to look it in the face, and to put it aside....

The twilight silence was broken sharp in two by a cry that rang across the room. We started from our dream together and looked around. Sarah was standing midway in the long room, steadying herself by a hand reached out to a chair. I ran to hold her from falling. She grasped my arm and walked on unsteadily toward Jane.

"I knew it! I knew it always!" she cried harshly.

"You tortuous woman—you are taking him from me! You did it from the first day! How I hate you!"

She dropped into a chair and sobbed. Jane knelt down by her side and, grasping her hands, spoke to her in low, pleading words:—

"No, child, you are wrong! You wrong him. He is not such a man. There is no truth in your cruel words."

"Yes, you have made him do dishonorable things. He has acted so his own family have left him. I know it is you!" she sobbed. "He has done what you would have him do."

"Child, child!" Jane exclaimed impatiently, shaking gently the hands she held. "What do you mean by saying such a thing?"

"Hasn't he done all those bad things? He never denied it, not when he was accused in church before every one. And May said it was true."

She looked resentfully at Jane through her tears. The older woman still smiled at her and stroked her hands.

"But even if it were true, you mustn't take the part of his accusers! That isn't for a woman who loves him to do. You must trust him to the end."

Sarah looked at her and then at me. She pushed Jane from her quickly.

"Don't you defend him to me! You have stolen him! He loves you. I saw it once before, and I see it on your face now. I know it!"

"Come!" I said, taking Sarah by the arm and leading her away. "You don't know what you say."

"Yes, I do! You treat me like a child, Van! Why did you have to take him?" she turned and flamed out to Jane. "You have always had everything."

"Have I had everything?" the other woman questioned slowly, quietly, as if musing to herself. "Everything? Do you know all, child? Let me tell you one thing. Once I had a child—a son. One child! And he was born blind. He lived four months. Those were the only months I think I have ever lived. Do you think that I have had all the joy?"

She was stirred, at last, passionate, ironic, and Sarah looked at her with wondering surprise, with awe.

"You grudge me the three or four hours your husband has given me out of the ten years you have lived with him! You hate me because he has talked to me as he would talk to himself—as he would talk to you each day, if you could read the first letter of his mind. And if I love him? If he loves me? Would you deny yourself the little I have taken from you, his wife, if it were yours to take and mine to lose? But be content! Not one word of what you call love has passed between us, or ever will. Is that enough?"

They looked at each other with hate plainly written on their faces.

"You are a bad woman!" Sarah exclaimed brokenly.

"Am I? Think of this, then. I could take your husband—I could from this hour! But for his sake, for his sake, I will not. I will not!"

Sarah groaned, covering her eyes, while Jane walked rapidly out of the room. In a moment the carriage door clicked outside, and we were alone.

"You love that woman, Van!" Sarah's voice broke the silence between us with an accusing moan.

"Why say that—" I began, and stopped; for, after this hour, I knew what it was for one person to be close to another. However, it seemed a foolish thing to be talking about. There would be no gain in going deeper into our hearts.

"There has never been a word between us that you should not hear," I replied; "and now let us say no more."

But Sarah shook her head, unconvinced.

"It is two years or more since I have seen Jane," I added.

"That makes no difference. Jane was right! You love her!" she repeated helplessly. "What shall we do?"

"Nothing!" I took her cold hands and sat down opposite her, drawing her nearer me. "Don't fear, my wife. They are going away again, I understand. She will go out of our life for always."

"I have my children," Sarah mused after a pause.

"We have our children," I corrected. "And it's best to think of them before ourselves."

"Oh, if we could take them and go away to some little place, to live like my people down in Kentucky—you and me and the children!"

I smiled to myself at the thought. To run away was not just to pack a trunk, as Sarah thought!

"It would be impossible. Everything would go to pieces. I should lose pretty much all that we have—not only that, but a great many other people who have trusted me with their money would lose. I must work at least until there is no chance of loss for them."

"But aren't you a very rich man, Van?"

"Not so rich as I shall be some day! But I might make out to live in Kentucky, all the same."

"You think I must have a great deal of money?"

"I always want you to have all that money can get."

"To make up for what I can't have!" She burst into sobs. "I am so wretched, Van! Everything seems strange. I have tried to do what is right. But God must be displeased with me: He has taken from me the one thing I wanted."

That was a bitter thought to lie between husband and wife. I took her in my arms and comforted her, and together we saw that a way lay clear before us, doing our duty by one another and by our children, and in the end all would come out well. As we sat there together, it seemed to me as though there could be two loves in a man's life,—the love for the woman and her children, who are his to protect; and the hunger love at the bottom of the heart, which with most is never satisfied, and maybe never can be satisfied in this life.

So she was comforted and after a little time went to her room, more calm in spirit. Then I called my secretary, and we worked together until a late hour. When my mind came back to the personal question of living, the fire on the hearth had died into cold ashes and the house was still with the stillness of early morning. For the moment it came over me that the fight I was waging with fortune was as cold as these ashes and doomed to failure. And the end, what was it?

Upstairs, Sarah lay half dressed on the lounge in my room, asleep. The tears had dried where they had fallen on her cheeks and neck. Her hair hung down loosely as though she had not the will to put it up for the night. As she lay there asleep, in the disorder of her grief, I knew that the real sorrow of life was hers, not mine. The memory of that day of our engagement came back to me—when I had wished to protect and cover her from the hard things of life. And again, as that time, I longed to take her, the gentle heart so easily hurt, and save her from this sorrow, the worst that can come to a loving woman. As I kissed the stained face, she awoke and looked at me wonderingly, murmuring half asleep:—

"What is it, Van? What has happened? It is time for you to go to bed. I remember—something bad has happened. What is it, Van? Oh, I know now!"

She shuddered as I lifted her from the lounge.

"I remember now what it is. You love that woman, but I can't let you go. I can't bear it. I can't live without you!"

"That will never come so long as there is life for us both," I promised.

She drew her arm tight about my neck.

"Yes! You must love me a little always."