Paula wrote a short letter to Quentin Charter in the afternoon, and did not begin to regret it until too late. It was not that she had said anything unwise or discordant—but that she had written at all.... Her heart felt dead. She had trusted her all to one—and her all was lost. A little white animal that had always been warm and petted, suddenly turned naked to face the reality of winter,—this was the first sense, and the paramount2 trouble was that she could not die quickly enough. The full realization3 was slow to come. Indeed, it was not until the night and the next day that she learned the awful reaches of suffering of which a desolated4 human mind is capable. It was like one of those historic tides which rise easily to the highest landmarks5 of the shore-dweller, and not till then begin to show their real fury, devastating6 vast fields heretofore virgin7 to the sea. Along many coasts and in many lives there is one, called The High Tide.... Paula felt that she could have coped with her sorrow, had this been a personal blow, but her faith in the race of men, the inspiration of her work, her dream of service—all were uprooted8.
She did not pretend to deny that she had loved Quentin Charter—her first and loftiest dream of a mate, the heart's cry of all her womanhood. True, as man and woman, they had made no covenant9, but to her (and had he not expressed the same in a score of ways?), there had been enacted10 a more wonderful adjustment, than any words could bring about. This was the havoc11. She had lost more than a mere12 human lover. She dared now to say it, because, in losing, she perceived how great it had become—the passion was gone from her soul. Her place in the world was desolate; all her labors13 pointless. As a woman, she had needed his arms, less than an anchorage of faith in his nobility. And how her faith had rushed forth14 to that upper window across the States!
Words—the very word was poison to her. Writing—an emptiness, a treachery. Veritably, he had torn the pith out of all her loved books.... Bellingham had shown her what words meant—words that drew light about themselves, attracting a brilliance16 that blinded her; words that wrought17 devilishness in the cover of their white light—but Bellingham had not assailed18 her faith. This was the work of a man who had lifted her above the world, not one who called from beneath. Bellingham could not have crippled her faith like this—and left it to die.... Almost momentarily, came the thought of his letters—thoughts from these letters. They left her in a dark—that was madness....
And if they were false, what was the meaning of her exaltations? Night and morning she had looked into the West, sending him all the graces of her mind, all the secrets of her heart. He had told her of the strange power that had come to him, of the new happiness—how, as never before, he had felt radiations of splendid strength. She had not hurried him to her, but had read with ecstasy19, believing that a tithe20 of his new power was her gift.... Words, desolate, damnable words.... "And I had thought to heal and lift New York," she exclaimed mockingly, looking down into the gray streets after the age-long night. "New York holds fast to her realities—the things she has found sure. It is well to be normal and like New York!"
The day after the door had shut upon Selma Cross, Paula was a betrayed spirit wandering alone in polar darkness. She had not slept, nor could she touch food. Twice the actress had rapped; repeatedly the telephone called—these hardly roused her. Letters were thrust under her door and lay untouched in the hall. She was lying upon the lounge in the little room of books, as the darkness swiftly gathered that second day. All the meanings of her childhood, all the promises for fulfillment with the years, were lost. The only passion she knew was for the quick end of life—to be free from the world, and its Bellinghams.
"God, tell me," she murmured, and her voice sounded dry and strange in the dark, "what is this thing, Soul, which cries out for its Ideal—builds its mate from all things pure, from dreams that are cleansed21 in the sky; dreams that have not known the touch of any earthly thing—what is this Soul, that, now bereft22, cries with Rachel, 'Death, let me in!...' Oh, Death, put me to sleep—put me to sleep!"
Voices reached her from the hall:
"You can knock or ring, sir, if you like," the elevator-man was saying, "but I tell you Miss Linster is not there. She has not answered the 'phone, and there is one of the letters, sticking out from under the door, that I put there this morning, or yesterday afternoon."
"When did you see her last?" The voice was Reifferscheid's.
"Day before yesterday she was in and out. Miss Cross, the lady who lives in this other apartment, said she called on Miss Linster yesterday morning."
"The point is that she left no word—either with you or with us—before going away. We are very good friends of hers. I'll ring for luck——"
The bell rang long and loudly. Paula imagined the thick thumb pressed against it, and the big troubled face. She wanted to answer—but facing Reifferscheid was not in her that moment.... The elevator was called from below.
"No use," Reifferscheid said finally. "Here's a coin for your trouble. I'll call up the first thing in the morning——"
She heard the click of the elevator-door, and the quick whine23 of the car, sinking in the shaft24. She recalled that she had not been at The States for four or five days. She had intended going down-town yesterday.... She thought long of Reifferscheid's genuine and changeless kindness, of his constant praise for sincerity25 anywhere and his battling for the preservation26 of ideals in all work. His faith in Charter recurred27 to her—and his frequently unerring judgments28 of men and women she had known. All about him was sturdy and wholesome—a substance, this, to hold fast.... Reifferscheid had come in the crisis. Paula fell asleep, thinking of snails29 and stickle-backs, flowers and Sister Annie, big trees and solid friends.
She awoke in a different world—at least, a world in which tea and toast and marmalade were reckonable. Her thoughts went bravely down into the depression for salvage30; and a mind that can do this is not without hope. It was only eight. Reifferscheid had not yet 'phoned.... Charter would have her letter now, or soon—that letter written seven eternities ago in the first hysteria, while she could yet weep. She could not have written in the ice-cold silence of yesterday. She wished that she had not let him see that she could weep. When the tragedy had risen to high-tide in her soul—there had been no words for him. Would she ever write again?...
Her mind reverted31 now to the heart of things. In the first place, Selma Cross would not intentionally32 lie. She asked so little of men—and had asked less a few years ago—that to have her call one "cad" with an adjective, was a characterscape, indeed. That she had intimately known Quentin Charter three years before, was unsettling in itself.... True, he made no pretensions33 to a righteous past. All his work suggested utter delvings into life. He had even hinted a background that was black-figured and restlessly stirring, but she had believed that he wrote these things in the same spirit which prompted the ascetic34 Thoreau to say, "I have never met a worse man than myself." She believed that the evils of sense were not so complicated, but that genius can fathom35 them without suffering their defilement36. His whole present, as depicted37 in his letters, was a song—bright as his open prairies, and pure as the big lakes of his country.... Could she become reconciled to extended periods of physical abandonment in the Charter-past? Faintly her heart answered, but quickly, "Yes, if they are forever nameless...." "Specific abandonments?" Her mind pinned her heart to this, with the added sentence, "Is it fair for you not to hear what Selma Cross has to say—and what Quentin Charter may add?..."
The elevator-man was at the door with further letters. He did not ring, because it was so early. Softly, she went into the hall. There was an accumulation of mail upon the floor—two from The States; one from Charter.... This last was opened after a struggle. It must have been one of those just brought, for it was dated, the day before yesterday, and she usually received his letters the second morning. Indeed, this had been written on the very afternoon that she had penned her agony.
I know I shall be sorry that I have permitted you to find me in a black mood like this, but I feel that I must tell you. A sense of isolation38, altogether new, since first your singing came, flooded over me this afternoon. It is as though the invisible connections between us were deranged—as if there had been a storm and the wires were down. It began about noon, when the thought of the extreme youth of my soul, beside yours, began to oppress me. I perceived that my mind is imperiously active rather than humbly39 wise; that I am capable of using a few thoughts flashily, instead of being great-souled from rich and various ages. Ordinarily, I should be grateful for the gifts I have, and happy in the bright light from you—but this last seems turned away. Won't you let me hear at once, please?
She was not given long to ponder upon this strange proof of his inner responsiveness; yet the deep significance of it remained with her, and could not but restore in part a certain impressive meaning of their relation. Selma Cross called, and Reifferscheid 'phoned, as Paula was just leaving for down-town. It had been necessary, she explained, to the literary editor in his office, for her to make a sorry little pilgrimage during the past few days. She was very grateful it was over. Reifferscheid said abruptly40 that pilgrimages were nefarious41 when they made one look so white and trembly.
"The point is, you'd better make another to Staten Island," he added. "Nice rough passage in a biting wind, barren fields, naked woods, and all that. Besides, you must see my system of base-burners——"
"I'll just do that—when I catch up a little on my work," Paula said. "I'm actually yearning42 for it, but there are so many loose ends to tie up, that I couldn't adequately enjoy myself for a day or two. Really, I'm not at all ill. You haven't enough respect for my endurance, which is of a very good sort."
"Don't be too sure about that," Reifferscheid said quickly. "It's altogether too good to be hurt.... Do you realize you've never had your hat off in this office?"
"I hadn't thought of it," she said, studying him. Plainly by his bravado43 he wasn't quite sure of his ground.
"There ought to be legislation against people with hair the color of yours——" Reifferscheid regarded her a moment before he added, "wearing hats. You must come over to Staten—if for no other reason——"
"Oh, I begin to see perfectly44 now," Paula observed. "You want to add me to your system of base-burners."
"Yes, with delight"
He did not tell her of being worried to the point of travelling far up-town to ring the bell of her apartment. She could not like him less for this.... There was a telegram from Charter, when she reached home. In the next two hours, a thought came to Paula and was banished46 a score of times; yet with each recurrence47 it was more integrate and compelling. This was Saturday afternoon. Selma Cross returned from her matinée shortly before six and was alone. Paula met her in the hall, and followed into the other's apartment.
"I have just an hour, dear. Dimity has supper ready. Stay, won't you?"
"Yes," Paula forced herself to say. "I wanted to ask you about Quentin Charter. You were called away—just as you were speaking of him the other morning.... I have not met him, but his two recent books are very wonderful. I reviewed the second for The States. He thanked me in a letter which was open to answer."
Selma Cross stretched out her arms and laughed mirthlessly. "And so you two have been writing letters?" she observed. "I'm putting down a bet that his are rich—if he's interested."
Paula had steeled herself for this. There were matters which she must learn before making a decision which his telegram called for. Her mind held her inexorably to the work at hand, though her heart would have faltered48 in the thick cloud of misgivings49.
"Yes, there is much in his letters—so much that I can't quite adjust him to the name you twice designated. Remember, you once before called him that—when I didn't know that you were speaking of Quentin Charter."
"Is that to the point?"
"Why, yes Paula," the other replied, darting51 a queer look at her. "If I am to be held to a point—it is—because, as a writer, he uses what is of value. He makes women mad about him, and then goes back to his garret, and sobers up enough to write an essay or a story out of his recent first-hand studies in passion."
"You say he was drinking—when you knew him?"
"Enough to kill another man. It didn't seem to make his temperament52 play less magically. He was never silly or limp, either in mind or body, but he must have been burned to a cinder53 inside. He intimated that he didn't dare to go on exhibition any day before mid-afternoon."
Paula, very pale, bent54 forward and asked calmly as she could: "I wish you would tell me just what Quentin Charter did to make you think of him always—in connection with that name."
"On condition that you will recall occasionally that you have a plate before you—also supper, which won't stay hot." Selma Cross spoke55 with some tension, for she felt that the other was boring rather pointedly56, and it was not her time of day for confessions57. Still, the quality of her admiration58 for Paula Linster involved large good nature. ".... Extraordinary, as it may seem, my dear, Charter made me believe that he was passionately59 in love. I was playing Sarah Blixton in Caller Herrin,—my first success. It was a very effective minor60 part and an exceptionally good play. It took his eye—my work especially—and he arranged to meet me. Felix Larch61, by the way, took care of this formality for him. Incidentally, I didn't know Felix Larch, but my cue was greatly to be honored. Charter told me that Larch said I was peculiar62 for an actress and worth watching, because I had a brain.... The man, Charter, was irresistible63 in a wine-room. I say in a wine-room, not that his talk was of the sort you might expect there, but that he was drinking—and was at home nowhere else. You see, he has a working knowledge of every port in the world, and to me it seemed—of every book. Then, he has a sharp, swift, colorful way of expressing himself.... I told you, Villiers was away. I couldn't realize that it was merely a new type Charter found in me.... We were together when I wasn't at work. It was a wild and wonderful fortnight—to me. He used to send notes in the forenoon—things he thought of, when he couldn't sleep, he said. I knew he was getting himself braced64 in those early hours.... Then, one night at supper, he informed me that he was leaving for the West that night. He had only stopped in New York, on the way home from Asia, via Suez. I was horribly hurt, but there was nothing for me to say. He was really ill. The drink wouldn't bite that night, he said. We finished the supper like two corpses65, Charter trying to make me believe he'd be back shortly. I haven't seen him since."
Paula began to breathe a bit more freely. "Didn't he write?"
"Yes, at first, but I saw at once he was forcing. Then he dictated66 an answer to one of mine—dictated a letter to me——" Selma Cross halted. The lids narrowed across her yellow eyes.
"He had said he loved you?" Paula asked with effort.
"By the way," Selma Cross retorted, "did you notice that word 'love' in either of his recent books—except as a generality?"
"Since you speak of it, I do recall he markedly avoided it," Paula said with consuming interest.
"No, he didn't use it to me. He said he never put it in a man's or woman's mouth in a story. Ah, but there are other words," she went on softly. "The man was a lover—beyond dreams—impassioned."
"About that dictated letter?" Paula urged hastily.
"Yes, I told him I didn't want any more that way. Then Villiers was back, and beckoning67 again. The last word I received was from Charter's stenographer68. She said he was ill. Oh, I did hear afterward—that he was in a sanatorium. God knows, he must have landed there—if he kept up the pace he was going when I knew him."
In the moment of silence which followed, Paula was hoping with all her might—that this was the end.
"Oh, I know what you're thinking!" Selma said suddenly. "He has fascinated you, and you can't see that he's a rotten cad—from what I've said so far. A woman can never see the meanness of a man from another woman's experience with him. She forgives him for calling forth all another woman has—and then shaking her loose like a soiled bath-robe when one's tub is ready. But it's different when she's the discarded woman!... He was so deep, I can't believe he didn't know that episodes were new to me. Likely, he's had so many around the world, that he can't take them more seriously from the woman's angle—than from his own.... Quentin Charter was the first man to arouse all my dreams. Can't you see how it hurt when he turned out to be—well, that name you refuse to utter?"
"Yes, of course, yes, but you suggest more, Selma!"
"He used me for 'copy,' as they call it. His article on the 'acting15 of stage-folk after hours,' appeared in a magazine a few weeks later. He's always a saint in his garret, you know. The article was filled with cutting cynicism about stage-matters, many of which he had discovered in the two weeks with me—and laughed over with his wine. I could have forgiven that, only he made me believe that there was not a thought apart from Selma Cross in his mind when we were together.... Oh, what's the use of me lying? I could have forgiven that, anyway!"
"What was it, you could not forgive?" Paula's face was bloodless.
"He told it all about—how easy I had proved in his hands!" the actress revealed with suppressed fury.
The other shrank back.
"That's where the expression comes in, Paula—the expression you hate. Drunk or sober—cad's the word. What a woman gives to a man is put in his inner vault69 forever. What she gives to a cad—is passed on to his friends."
Paula arose, tortured as if branded within. Here was a defection of character which an entire incarnation of purity could not make whole. It was true that in her heart, she had not been mortally stricken before; true, as Selma Cross had so bitterly declared, that a woman is not stayed from mating with a man because a sister has suffered at his hands.
"I have nothing to say about the word, if that is true." Paula spoke with difficulty, and in a hopeless tone.
"Please, eat some supper, dear——"
There was heart-break in the answer: "I cannot. I'm distressed70, because I have spoiled yours.... You have answered everything readily—and it has hurt you.... I—feel—as—if—I—must—tell—you—why—I—asked—or I wouldn't have dared to force questions upon you. His letters made me think of him a great deal. When you picked up his book the other morning and said that—why, it was all I could stand for the time. His work is so high and brave—I can hardly understand how he could talk about a woman whose only fault was that she gave him what he desired. Are you sure he cannot prove that false?"
Selma Cross left her seat at the table and took Paula in her arms.
"How can he?" she whispered. "The old man knew all about us. One of his friends heard Charter talking about the easy virtue71 of stage women—that there were scarcely no exceptions! Charter hinted in his article that acting is but refined prostitution. Villiers said because I had a name for being square Charter had chosen to prove otherwise!... Then see how he dropped me—not a word in three years from my memorable72 lover! And Villiers knew about us—first and last!... I could murder that sort—and to think that his devil's gift has been working upon you——"
"You have told me quite enough, thank you." Paula interrupted in a lifeless voice. "I shall not see him."
Selma Cross held her off at arms' length to glance at her face. "You what?" she exclaimed.
"He is on the way to New York and will be at the Granville to-morrow afternoon, where he hopes to find a note saying he may call here to-morrow night. There shall be no note from me——"
"But did you write to him, Paula?" the actress asked strangely excited.
"Yes—a little after you left me the other morning. It was silly of me. Oh, but I did not tell him what I had heard—or who told me!... Finish your supper—you must go."
"And how did you learn of his coming?"
"He telegraphed me to-day. That's why I bothered you at your supper——"
"What a dramatic situation—if you decided73 to see him!" Selma Cross said intensely. "And to think—that to-morrow is Sunday night and I don't work!"
Paula felt brutalized by the change in the other's manner. "I have decided not to see him," she repeated, and left the apartment.
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1
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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snails
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| n.蜗牛；迟钝的人；蜗牛( snail的名词复数 ) | |
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salvage
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| v.救助，营救，援救；n.救助，营救 | |
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31
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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defilement
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| n.弄脏，污辱，污秽 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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40
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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41
nefarious
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| adj.恶毒的，极坏的 | |
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42
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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43
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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44
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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45
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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49
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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52
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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cinder
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| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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larch
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| n.落叶松 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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65
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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67
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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68
stenographer
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| n.速记员 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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