The Chalice Of Courage: A Romance of Colorado

by Cyrus Townsend Brady

  CHAPTER XX

  THE STRENGTH OF THE WEAK

  Although Enid Maitland had spoken bravely enough while he was there,when she was alone her heart sank into the depths as she contemplatedthe dreadful and unsolvable dilemma in which these two lovers foundthemselves so unwittingly and inextricably involved. It was indeed acurious and bewildering situation. Passionate adoration for the otherrose in each breast like the surging tide of a mighty sea and like thattide upon the shore it broke upon conventions, ideas, ideals andobligations intangible to the naked eye but as real as those iron coaststhat have withstood the waves' assaults since the world's morning.

  The man had shaped his life upon a mistake. He believed absolutely inthe unquestioned devotion of a woman to whom he had been forced to meteout death in an unprecedented and terrible manner. His unwillingness toderogate by his own conduct from the standard of devotion which hebelieved had inhabited his wife's bosom, made it impossible for him toallow the real love that had come into his heart for this new woman tohave free course; honor, pride and self respect scourged him just inproportion to his passion for Enid Maitland.

  The more he loved her, the more ashamed he was. By a curious combinationof circumstances, Enid Maitland knew the truth, she knew that from onepoint of view the woman had been entirely unworthy the reverence inwhich her husband held her memory. She knew that his wife had not lovedhim at all, that her whole heart had been given to another man, thatwhat Newbold had mistaken for a passionate desire for his societybecause there was no satisfaction in life for the wife away from him wasdue to a fear lest without his protection she should be unable to resistthe appeal of the other man which her heart seconded so powerfully. Ifit were only that Newbold would not be false to the obligation of theother woman's devotion, Enid might have solved the problem in a moment.

  It was not so simple, however. The fact that Newbold cherished thismemory, the fact that this other woman had fought so desperately, hadtried so hard not to give way, entitled her to Enid Maitland'sadmiration and demanded her highest consideration as well. Chance, orProvidence, had put her in possession of this woman's secret. It was asif she had been caught inadvertently eavesdropping. She could not inhonor make use of what she had overheard, as it were; she could notblacken the other woman's memory, she could not enlighten this man atthe expense of his dead wife's reputation.

  Although she longed for him as much as he longed for her, although herlove for him amazed her by its depth and intensity, even to bring herhappiness commensurate with her feelings she could not betray her deadsister. The imposts of honor, how hard they are to sustain when theyconflict with love and longing.

  Enid Maitland was naturally not a little thrown off her balance by thesituation and the power that was hers. What she could not do herself shecould not allow anyone else to do. The obligation upon her must beextended to others. Old Kirkby had no right to the woman's secret anymore than she, he must be silenced. Armstrong, the only other beingprivy to the truth, must be silenced too.

  One thing at least arose out of the sea of trouble in a tangible way,she was done with Armstrong. Even if she had not so loved Newbold thatshe could scarcely give a thought to any other human being, she was donewith Armstrong.

  A singular situation! Armstrong had loved another woman, so had Newbold,and the latter had even married this other woman, yet she was quitewilling to forgive Newbold, she made every excuse for him, she made nonefor Armstrong. She was an eminently sane, just person, yet as shethought of the situation her anger against Armstrong grew hotter andhotter. It was a safety valve to her feelings, although she did notrealize it. After all, Armstrong's actions rendered her a certainservice; if she could get over the objection in her soul, if she couldever satisfy her sense of honor and duty, and obligation, she couldsettle the question at once. She had only to show the letters to Newboldand to say, "These were written by the man of the picture; it was he andnot you your wife loved," and Newbold would take her to his heartinstantly.

  These thoughts were not without a certain comfort to her. All thecompensation of self-sacrifice is in its realization. That she could doand yet did not somehow ennobled her love for him. Even women arealloyed with base metal. In the powerful and universal appeal of thisman to her, she rejoiced at whatever was of the soul rather than of thebody. To possess power, to refrain from using it in obedience to somehigher law is perhaps to pay oneself the most flattering ofcompliments. There was a satisfaction to her soul in this which was yetdenied him.

  Her action was quite different from his. She was putting away happinesswhich she might have had in compliance with a higher law than that whichbids humanity enjoy. It was flattering to her mind. In his case it wasotherwise: he had no consciousness that he was a victim of misplacedtrust, of misinterpreted action; he thought the woman for whom he wasputting away happiness was almost as worthy, if infinitely lessdesirable, as the woman whom he now loved.

  Every sting of conscious weakness, every feeling of realized shame,every fear of ultimate disloyalty, scourged him. She could glory in it;he was ashamed, humiliated, broken.

  She heard him savagely walking up and down the other room, restlesslyimpelled by the same Erinnyes who of old scourged Orestes, the violaterof the laws of moral being, drove him on. These malign Eumenides heldhim in their hands. He was bound and helpless; rage as he might in onemoment, pray as he did in another, no light came into the whirlingdarkness of his torn, tempest tossed, driven soul. The irresistibleimpulse and the immovable body the philosophers puzzled over wereexemplified in him. While he almost hated the new woman, while healmost loved the old, yet that he did neither the one thing nor theother absolutely was significant.

  Indeed he knew that he was glad Enid Maitland had come into his life. Nolife is complete until it is touched by that divine fire which for lackof another name we call love. Because we can experience that sensationwe are said to be made in God's image. The image is blurred as theanimal predominates, it is clearer as the spiritual has the ascendency.

  The man raved in his mind. White faced, stern, he walked up and down, hetossed his arms about him, he stopped, his eyes closed, he threw hishands up toward God, his heart cried out under the lacerations of theblows inflicted upon it. No flagellant of old ever trembled beneath thebody lash as he under the spiritual punishment.

  He prayed that he might die at the same moment that he longed to live.He grappled blindly for solutions of the problem that would leave himwith untarnished honor and undiminished self-respect and fidelity, andyet give him this woman; and in vain. He strove to find a way toreconcile the past with the present, realizing as he did so the futilityof such a proposition. One or the other must be supreme; he mustinexorably hold to his ideas and his ideals, or he must inevitably takethe woman.

  How frightful was the battle that raged within his bosom. Sometimes inhis despair he thought that he would have been glad if he and she hadgone down together in the dark waters before all this came upon him. Thefloods of which the heavens had emptied themselves had borne her to him.Oh, if they had only swept him out of life with its trouble, its trials,its anxieties, its obligations, its impossibilities! If they had gonetogether! And then he knew that he was glad even for the torture,because he had seen her, because he had loved her, and because she hadloved him.

  He marveled at himself curiously and in a detached way. There was awoman who loved him, who had confessed it boldly and innocently; therewere none to say him nay. The woman who stood between had been dead fiveyears, the world knew nothing, cared nothing; they could go outtogether, he could take her, she would come. On the impulse he turnedand ran to the door and beat upon it. Her voice bade him enter and hecame in.

  Her heart yearned to him. She was shocked, appalled, at the torture shesaw upon his face. Had he been laid upon the rack and every joint pulledfrom its sockets, he could not have been more white and agonized.

  "I give up," he cried. "What are honor and self-respect to me? I wantyou. I have put the past behind. You love me, and
I, I am yours withevery fiber of my being. Great God! Let us cast aside these foolishquixotic scruples that have kept us apart. If a man's thoughts declarehis guilt I am already disloyal to the other woman; deeply, entirely so.I have betrayed her, shamed her, abandoned her. Let me have somecompensation for what I have gone through. You love me, come to me."

  "No," answered the woman, and no task ever laid upon her had been harderthan that. "I do love you, I will not deny it, every part of me respondsto your appeal. I should be so happy that I cannot even think of it, ifI could put my hand in your own, if I could lay my head upon yourshoulder, if I could feel your heart beat against mine, if I could givemyself up to you, I would be so glad, so glad. But it can not be, notnow."

  "Why not?" pleaded the man.

  He was by her side, his arm went around her. She did not resistphysically, it would have been useless; she only laid her slender handupon his broad breast and threw her head back and looked at him.

  "See," she said, "how helpless I am, how weak in your hands? Everyvoice in my heart bids me give way. If you insist I can deny younothing. I am helpless, alone, but it must not be. I know you betterthan you know yourself, you will not take advantage of affection sounbounded, of weakness so pitiable."

  Was it the wisdom of calculation, or was it the wisdom of instinct bywhich she chose her course? Resistance would have been unavailing, inweakness was her strength.

  _Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth!_

  Yes, that was true. She knew it now if never before, and so did he.

  Slowly the man released her. She did not even then draw away from him;she stood with her hand still on his breast, she could feel the beatingof his heart beneath her fingers.

  "I am right," she said softly. "It kills me to deny you anything, myheart yearns toward you, why should I deny it, it is my glory not myshame."

  "There is nothing above love like ours," he pleaded, wondering whatmarvelous mastery she exercised that she stopped him by a hand's touch,a whispered word, a faith.

  "No; love is life, love is God, but even God Himself is underobligations of righteousness. For me to come to you now, to marry younow, to be your wife, would be unholy. There would not be that perfectconfidence between us that must endure in that relation. Your honor andmine, your self-respect and mine would interpose. If I can't have youwith a clear conscience, if you can't come to me in the same way, we arebetter apart. Although it kills me, although life without you seemsnothing and I would rather not live it, we are better apart. I cannot beyour wife until--"

  "Until what and until when?" demanded Newbold.

  "I don't know," said the woman, "but I believe that somewhere, somehow,we shall find a way out of our difficulty. There is a way," she said alittle incautiously, "I know it."

  "Show it to me."

  "No, I can not."

  "What prevents?"

  "The same thing which prevents you, honor, loyalty."

  "To a man?"

  "To a woman."

  "I don't understand."

  "No, but you will some day," she smiled at him. "See," she said,"through my tears I can smile at you, though my heart is breaking. Iknow that in God's good time this will work itself out."

  "I can't wait for God, I want you now," persisted the other.

  "Hush, don't say that," answered the woman, for a moment laying her handon his lips. "But I forgive you, I know how you suffer."

  The man could say nothing, do nothing. He stared at her a moment and hishand went to his throat as if he were choking.

  "Unworthy," he said hoarsely, "unworthy of the past, unworthy of thepresent, unworthy of the future. May God forgive me, I never can."

  "He will forgive you, never fear," answered Enid gently.

  "And you?" asked her lover. "I have ruined your life."

  "No, you have ennobled it. Let nothing ever make you forget that.Wherever you are and whatever you do and whatever you may have been, Ilove you and I shall love you to the end. Now you must go, it is solate, I can't stand any more. I throw myself on your mercy again. I growweaker and weaker before you. As you are a man, as you are stronger,save me from myself. If you were to take me again in your arms," shewent on steadily, "I know not how I could drive you back. For God'ssake, if you love me--"

  That was the hardest thing he had ever done, to turn and go out of theroom, out of her sight and leave her standing there with eyes shining,with pulses throbbing, with breath coming fast, with bosom panting. Oncemore, and at a touch she might have yielded!

  BOOK V

  THE CUP IS DRAINED