CHAPTER VI
SOUL AND BODY
As in a blessed vision, doubting the reality of it all, she sat lookingupward until his step on some outer floor aroused her to the wondrousreality.
He came, holding two clay figures. The first was an exquisite wingedshape, standing with delicate limbs parallel, arms extended, palmsoutward. The head was lifted a little, poised exquisitely on the perfectneck. Its loveliness thrilled her.
"Is it an angel?" she asked, innocently.
"No.... I thought you understood--this is only a sketch I made. And thisis the other." And he placed on a table the second figure, a smooth,youthful, sensuous shape, looking aside and down at her own whitefingers playing with her hair.
"Is it Eve?" she inquired, wondering.
"These," he said slowly, "are the first two sketches, done without amodel, for my two figures 'Soul' and 'Body'."
She looked at him, not comprehending.
"I--I must have a _living_ model--for these," he stammered. "Didn't youunderstand? I want _you_ to work from."
From brow to throat the scarlet stain deepened and spread. She turned,laid one small hand on the back of the chair, faltered, sank onto it,covering her face.
"I thought you understood," he repeated stupidly. "Forgive me--I thoughtyou understood what sort of help I needed." He dropped on one kneebeside her. "I am so sorry. Try to reason a little. You--you must know Imeant no offense--that I never could wish to offend you. Look at me,please; I am not that sort of a man. Can't you realize how desperate Iwas--how I dared hazard the chance that you might help me?"
She rose, her face still covered.
"_Can't_ you comprehend?" he pleaded, "that I meant no offense?"
"Y-yes. Let me go."
"Can you forgive me?"
"I--yes."
"And you cannot--help me?"
"H-help you?... Oh, no, no, no!" She broke down, sobbing in the chair,her golden head buried in her arms.
Confused, miserable, he watched her. Already the old helpless feelinghad come surging back, that there was to be no chance for him in theworld, no hope of all he had dared to believe in, no future. Watchingher he felt his own courage falling with her tears, his own willdrooping as she drooped there--slender and white in her thin, blackgown.
Again he spoke, for the moment forgetting himself.
"Don't cry, because there is nothing to cry about. You know I did notmean to hurt you; I know that you would help me if you could. Isn't ittrue?"
"Y-yes," she sobbed.
"It was only a sculptor who asked you, not a man at all. You understandwhat I mean?--only a poor devil of a sculptor, carried away by theglamour of a chance for better fortune that seemed to open before himfor a moment. So you must not feel distressed or sensitive orashamed----"
She sat up, wet eyed, cheeks aflame.
"I am thinking of _you_!" she cried, almost fiercely, "not of myself;and you don't understand! Do you think I would cry over myself? I--it isbecause I cannot help _you_!"
He found no words to answer as she rose and moved toward the door. Shecrossed the threshold, turned and looked at him. Then she entered herown doorway.
* * * * *
And the world went badly for her that night, and, after that, day andnight, the world went badly.
Always the confusion of shame and dread returned to burn her; but thatwas the least; for in the long hours, lying amid the fragments of hershattered dreams, the knowledge that he needed her and that she couldnot respond, overwhelmed her.
The house, the corridor, her room became unendurable; she desired togo--anywhere--and try to forget. But she could not; she could not leave,she could not forget, she could not go to him and offer the only aid hedesired, she could not forgive herself.
In vain, in vain, white with the agony of courage, she strove to teachherself that she was nothing, her body nothing, that the cost wasnothing, compared to the terrible importance of his necessity. She knewin her heart that she could have died for him; but--but--her couragecould go no further.
In terrible silence she walked her room, thinking of him as one inperil, as one ruined for lack of the aid she withheld. Sometimes shepassed hours on her knees, tearless, wordless; sometimes sheerest fearset her creeping to the door to peer out, dreading lest his closed doorconcealed a tragedy.
And always, burning like twin gray flames before her eyes, she saw thefigures he had made, 'Soul' and 'Body.' Every detail remained clear;their terrible beauty haunted her. Night after night, rigid on her bed'sedge, she stretched her bared, white arms, staring at them, then flungthem hopelessly across her eyes, whispering, "I cannot--O God--Icannot--even for him."
And there came a day--a Saturday--when the silence of the house, of herroom, the silence in her soul, became insupportable.
All day she walked in the icy, roaring streets, driving herself forwardtoward the phantom of forgetfulness which fled before her like hershadow. And at the edge of noon she found herself--where she knew shemust come one day--seeking the woman who made plaster casts of hands andarms and shapely feet.
For a little while they talked together. The woman surprised, smilingsometimes, but always very gentle; the girl flushed, stammering,distressed in forming her naive questions.
Yes, it could be done; it had been done. But it was a long process; itmust be executed in sections, then set together limb by limb, for therewere many difficulties--and it was not pleasant to endure, evensometimes painful.
"I do not mind the pain," said the girl. "Will it scar me?"
"No, not that.... But, another thing; it would be expensive."
"I have my vacation money, and a little more." She named the sumtimidly.
Yes, it was enough. And when could she come for the first casts to betaken?
She was ready now.
A little later, turning a lovely, flushed face over her bare shoulder:"One figure stood like this," and, after a pause, "the other thisway.... If you make them from me, can a sculptor work from life castssuch as these?"
A sculptor could.
About dusk she crept home, trembling in every nerve. Her vacation hadbegun.
She had been promoted to a position as expert lace buyer, whichpermitted larger liberty. From choice she had taken no vacation duringthe summer. Now her vacation, which she requested for December, lastedten days; and at the end of it her last penny had been spent, but in amanner so wonderful, so strange, that no maid ever dreamed such thingsmight be.
"Christmas Eve she knelt, crying, before the pedestal."]
And on the last evening of it, which was Christmas Eve, she knelt,crying, before two pedestals from which rose her body and soul as whiteas death.
An hour later the snowy twins stood in his empty studio, swathed intheir corpse-white winding-sheets--unstained cerements, sealing beneaththeir folds her dead pride, dead hope--all that was delicate andintimate and subtle and sweet--slain and in cerements, for his sake.
And now she must go before he returned. Her small trunk was ready; hersmall account settled. With strangely weak and unsteady hands she stoodbefore the glass knotting her veil.
Since that night together last summer she had not spoken to him, merelyreturning his low greeting in the corridor with a silent littleinclination of her head. But, although she had had no speech with him,she had learned that he was teaching at the League now, and she knew hishours and his movements well enough to time her own by them.
He was not due for another hour; she looked out into the snowy darkness,drawing on her gloves and buttoning the scant fur collar close about herthroat.
The old janitor came to say good-by.
"An' God be with you, miss, this Christmas Eve"--taking the coinirresolutely, but pocketing it for fear of hurting her.
His fingers, numbed and aged, fumbling in the pocket encountered anotherobject.
"Musha, thin, I'm afther forgettin' phwat I'm here f'r to tell ye,miss," he rambled on. "Misther Landon wishes ye f'r to know
that he dobe lavin' the house"--the old man moistened his lips in an effort toremember with all the elegance required of him--"an' Misther Landon iswishful f'r to say a genteel good luck to ye, miss."
The girl shook her head.
"Tell Mr. Landon good-by for me, Patrick. Say--from me--God blesshim.... Will you remember?... And a--a happy Christmas."
"I will, Miss."
She touched her eyes with her handkerchief hastily, and held out herhand to the old man.
"I think that is all," she whispered.
She was mistaken; the janitor was holding out a note to her.
"In case ye found it onconvaynient f'r to see Misther Landon, I was toprojooce the letter, Miss."
She took it; a shiver passed over her.
When the old man had shambled off down the passage she reentered herroom, held the envelope a moment close under the lighted lamp, thennervously tore it wide.
"_You will read this in case you refuse to say good-by to me. But Ionly wanted to offer you a little gift at Christmastide--not inreparation, for I meant no injury--but in deepest respect for you. Andso I ask you once more to wait for me. Will you?_"
Minute after minute she sat there, dumb, confused, nerves at thebreaking point, her heart and soul crying out for him. Then the memoryof what was awaiting him in his studio choked her with fright. Shesprang to her feet, and at the same moment the outer gate clanged.
Terror froze her; then she remembered that it was too early for him; itmust be the expressman for her trunk. And she went to the door andopened it.
"Oh-h!" she breathed, shrinking back; but Landon had seen his letter inher hand, and he followed her into the room.
He was paler than she: his voice was failing him, too, as he laid hisgift on the bare table--only a little book, prettily bound.
"Will you take it?" he asked in a colorless voice; but she could notanswer, could not move.
"I wish you a happy Christmas," he whispered. "Good-by."
She strove to meet his eyes, strove to speak, lifted her slim hand tostay him. It fell, strength spent, in both of his.
Suddenly Time went all wrong, reeling off centuries in seconds. Andthrough the endless interstellar space that stretched between her worldand his she heard his voice bridging it: "I love you--I love youdearly.... Once more I am the beggar--a beggar at Christmastide, askingyour mercy--asking more, your love. Dear, is it plain this time? Is allclear, dearest among women?"
She looked up into his eyes; his hands tightened over hers.
"Can you love me?" he said.
"Yes," answered her eyes and the fragrant mouth assented, quiveringunder his lips.
Then, without will or effort of her own, from very far away, her voicestole back to her faintly.
"Is all this true? I have dreamed so long--so long--of loving you----"
He drew her closer; she laid both hands against his coat and hid herface between them.
He whispered:
"It was your unselfishness, your sweetness, and--_you_--all ofyou--yes--your beauty--the loveliness of you, too! I could not put itfrom me; I knew that night that I loved you--and to-day they said youwere going--so I came with my Christmas gift--the sorry, sorrygift--myself----"
"Ah!" she whispered, clinging closer. "And what of my gift--my twingifts--there, in your studio! Oh, you don't know, you don't know----"
"Dearest!"
"No--you can never know how much easier it had been for me to die thanto love--as I have loved a man this day."
* * * * *
"Confound you, Williams," I said, blinking.
But he did not hear me, sitting there in a literary revery, mentallyrepolishing the carefully considered paragraphs with which he had justregaled me.
"Williams?"
"What?"
"So--they're living in Normandy."
"Who?"
"Jim Landon and that girl, dammit!" I said, crossly.
"Yes--oh, yes, of course. Children--bunches of 'em--and all that."
"Williams?"
"What?"
"_Was_ she so pretty?"
"Certainly," he said, absently. "Don't bother me now; I've got an ideafor another story."