XVIII ALONE IN THE CARRIAGE

AFTER the blind and blundering fashion of a man, Arthur Brent was utterly unconscious of the blow he had dealt to this woman who had given him the only love of her life. For other men she had felt friendship, and to a few she had willingly given that affection which serves as a practical substitute for love in nine marriages out of ten, and which women themselves so often mistake for love. But to this woman love in its divinest form had come, the love that endureth all things and surpasseth all things, the love that knows no ceasing while life lasts, the love that makes itself a willing sacrifice. Until that day she had not herself known the state of her own soul. She had not understood how completely this man had become master of her life, how utterly she had given herself to him. And in the very moment that revealed the truth to her the man she loved had, with unmeant cruelty, opened her eyes also to that other truth that her love for him was futile and must ever remain hopeless.

She bade her driver go slowly, that she might think the matter out alone, and she thought it out. She was too proud a woman to pity herself for long. She knew and felt that Arthur had never dreamed of the change which had so unconsciously come upon her. She knew that had he so much as entertained a hope of her love a little while ago, he would have bent all the energies of his soul to the winning of her. She knew in brief that this man to whom she had unconsciously given the one love of her life, would have loved her in like manner, if she had permitted that. She knew too that it was now too late.

As the carriage slowly toiled along the sandy road, she meditated, sometimes even uttering her thought in low tones.

“There is no fault in him,” she reflected. “It is not that he is blind, but that I have hoodwinked him. In deceiving myself, I have deceived him.”

Then came the pleasanter thought:

“At any rate in ruining my own life, I have not ruined his, but glorified it. Had he loved and married me he would have been happy, but it would have been in a commonplace way. His ambitions would have died slowly but surely. That discontent, which he has taught me to understand as the mainspring of all that is highest and noblest in human endeavor, would have given place to a blighting contentment in such a life as that which he and I would have led together. It will be quite different when he marries Dorothy. She too has the ‘divine discontent’ that does things. She will be a help immeasurably more meet for him than I could ever have hoped to be. She will share his enthusiasms, and strengthen them. And it is his enthusiasm that makes him worthy of a woman’s love. It is that which takes him out of the commonplace. It is that which sets him apart from other men. It is that which makes him Arthur Brent.”

Then her thought reverted for a moment to her own pitiful case.

“What am I to do?” she asked herself. “What use can I make of my life that shall make it worthy of him? First of all I must be strong. He must never so much as suspect the truth, and of course nobody else must be permitted even to guess it. I must be a help to him, and not a hindrance. He must feel that my friendship, on which he places so high an estimate, is a friendship to be trusted and leant upon. I must more and more make myself his counsellor, a stimulating helpful influence in his life. His purposes are mainly right, and I must encourage him to seek their fulfilment. Such a man as he should not be wasted upon a woman like me, or led by such into a life of inglorious ease and inert content. After all perhaps I may help him as his friend, where, as his wife, my influence over his life and character would have been paralyzing. If I can help, him, my life will not be lost or ruined. It need not even be unhappy. If my love for him is such as he deserves, it will meet disappointment bravely. It will discipline itself to service. It will scorn the selfishness of idle bemoaning. The sacrifice that is burnt upon the altar is not in vain if the odors of it placate the gods. Better helpful sacrifice than idle lamentation.”

Then after a little her mind busied itself with thoughts less subjective and more practical.

“How shall I best help?” she asked herself. “First of all I must utterly crush selfishness in my heart. I must be a cheerful, gladsome influence and not a depressing one. From this hour there are no more tears for me, but only gladdening laughter. I must help toward that end which I see to be inevitable. I must do all that is possible to make it altogether good. I must help to prepare Dorothy to be the wife he needs. She has not been educated for so glorious a future. She has been carefully trained, on the contrary, for a humdrum life for which nature never intended her, the life of submissive wifehood to a man she could never love, a man whom she could not even respect when once her eyes were opened to better things in manhood. I must have her much with me. I must undo what has been done amiss in her education. I must help to fit her for a high ministry to the unselfish ambitions of the one man who is worthy of such a ministry. I must see to it that she is taught the very things that she has been jealously forbidden to learn. I must introduce her to that larger life from which she has been so watchfully secluded. So shall I make of my own life a thing worth while. So shall my love find a mission worthy of its object. So shall it be glorified.”