The Song of the Lark by Willa Cather (best reads .TXT) 📕

at first he spoke with less conviction, though again it grew on him. “Now I knew all this⁠—oh, knew it better than I can ever make you understand! You’ve been running a handicap. You had no time to lose. I wanted you to have what you need and to get on fast⁠—get through with me, if need be; I counted on that. You’ve no time to sit round and analyze your conduct or your feelings. Other women give their whole lives to it. They’ve nothing else to do. Helping a man to get his divorce is a career for them; just the sort of intellectual exercise they like.”

Fred dived fiercely into his pockets as if he would rip them out and scatter their contents to the winds. Stopping before her, he took a deep breath and went on again, this time slowly. “All that sort of thing is foreign to you. You’d be nowhere at it. You haven’t that kind of mind. The grammatical niceties of conduct are dark to you. You’re simple⁠—and poetic.” Fred’s voice seemed to be wandering about in the thickening dusk. “You won’t play much. You won’t, perhaps, love many times.” He paused. “And you did love me, you know. Your railroad friend would have understood me. I could have thrown you back. The reverse was there⁠—it stared me in the face⁠—but I couldn’t pull it. I let you drive ahead.” He threw out his hands. What Thea noticed, oddly enough, was the flash of the firelight on his cuff link. He turned again. “And you’ll always drive ahead,” he muttered. “It’s your way.”

There was a long silence. Fred had dropped into a chair. He seemed, after such an explosion, not to have a word left in him. Thea put her hand to the back of her neck and pressed it, as if the muscles there were aching.

“Well,” she said at last, “I at least overlook more in you than I do in myself. I am always excusing you to myself. I don’t do much else.”

“Then why, in Heaven’s name, won’t you let me be your friend? You make a scoundrel of me, borrowing money from another man to get out of my clutches.”

“If I borrow from him, it’s to study. Anything I took from you would be different. As I said before, you’d be keeping me.”

“Keeping! I like your language. It’s pure Moonstone, Thea⁠—like your point of view. I wonder how long you’ll be a Methodist.” He turned away bitterly.

“Well, I’ve never said I wasn’t Moonstone, have I? I am, and that’s why I want Dr. Archie. I can’t see anything so funny about Moonstone, you know.” She pushed her chair back a little from the hearth and clasped her hands over her knee, still looking thoughtfully into the red coals. “We always come back to the same thing, Fred. The name, as you call it, makes a difference to me how I feel about myself. You would have acted very differently with a girl of your own kind, and that’s why I can’t take anything from you now. You’ve made everything impossible. Being married is one thing and not being married is the other thing, and that’s all there is to it. I can’t see how you reasoned with yourself, if you took the trouble to reason. You say I was too much alone, and yet what you did was to cut me off more than I ever had been. Now I’m going to try to make good to my friends out there. That’s all there is left for me.”

“Make good to your friends!” Fred burst out. “What one of them cares as I care, or believes as I believe? I’ve told you I’ll never ask a gracious word from you until I can ask it with all the churches in Christendom at my back.”

Thea looked up, and when she saw Fred’s face, she thought sadly that he, too, looked as if things were spoiled for him. “If you know me as well as you say you do, Fred,” she said slowly, “then you are not being honest with yourself. You know that I can’t do things halfway. If you kept me at all⁠—you’d keep me.” She dropped her head wearily on her hand and sat with her forehead resting on her fingers.

Fred leaned over her and said just above his breath, “Then, when I get that divorce, you’ll take it up with me again? You’ll at least let me know, warn me, before there is a serious question of anybody else?”

Without lifting her head, Thea answered him. “Oh, I don’t think there will ever be a question of anybody else. Not if I can help it. I suppose I’ve given you every reason to think there will be⁠—at once, on shipboard, any time.”

Ottenburg drew himself up like a shot. “Stop it, Thea!” he said sharply. “That’s one thing you’ve never done. That’s like any common woman.” He saw her shoulders lift a little and grow calm. Then he went to the other side of the room and took up his hat and gloves from the sofa. He came back cheerfully. “I didn’t drop in to bully you this afternoon. I came to coax you to go out for tea with me somewhere.” He waited, but she did not look up or lift her head, still sunk on her hand.

Her handkerchief had fallen. Fred picked it up and put it on her knee, pressing her fingers over it. “Good night, dear and wonderful,” he whispered⁠—“wonderful and dear! How can you ever get away from me when I will always follow you, through every wall, through every door, wherever you go.” He looked down at her bent head, and the curve of her neck that was so sad. He stooped, and with his lips just touched her hair where the firelight made it ruddiest. “I didn’t know I had it in me, Thea. I thought it was all a fairy tale. I don’t know myself any