The Potter and the Clay: A Romance of Today

by Maud Howard Peterson

  *II.*

  Trevelyan had landed. The Captain saw it in the morning paper and readthe item out to Cary. The ship had gotten in a day before it had beenlooked for.

  Cary pushed back her untasted cup of coffee, and she remained in doorsall day, unconsciously listening for his footfall on the stairs, andwhen night came without bringing him, she laughed at herself forfancying that he would come direct to her.

  It was three days before he did come and she met him on the stairs. Shewas about to do some delayed shopping, and as she was going down, shemet him coming up. She turned and they went back to the quiet littlesitting room together, and she ran over to the window impetuously andflung back the curtains.

  "Come here," she said, gaily, "I can scarcely believe it is you,yourself! Come here, and let me see your Indian tan!"

  He smiled a little, obeying her, but he did not meet her eyes.

  _Could_ he ever tell her? he wondered.

  "Why you haven’t got half the tan I expected! You’re not chocolate atall!" she said like a grieved child.

  He forgot the haunting shadow for a moment and he laughed genuinely.

  "I’m sorry I don’t please you."

  "You don’t please me at all," Cary pouted. "You’re not chocolate, andyou haven’t returned a captain, and you’re not in uniform with a medalon your breast, and what is worse than everything, you’ve grownchicken-hearted and turned your back on the Service and run away."

  He winced.

  "And you’re as solemn as a funeral, and you haven’t told me you’re gladto see me, and—you don’t please me at all!"

  "That’s a nice greeting for a chap!"

  "Well—you deserve it!" Cary retorted; then she brightened up, "And youreally got hurt? Did it come just ’within a shade of a vital spot,’like it always does in the story books?"

  "I got a scratch."

  "Good boy! How did it happen? You must sit down and tell me all aboutit. Was it one of those horrid natives?"

  Trevelyan sat down near the window in the deep shadow of the curtains.He put his hand to his head and pressed it there tightly for a moment.

  "No," he said, "It wasn’t one of the natives. It was my own revolver."

  "What?"

  Trevelyan faltered.

  "Must you hear the story to-day? Won’t you wait? It’s so long sinceI’ve seen you—"

  If this brief hour could only be his, unspoiled, to remember!

  "Don’t be aggravating," said Cary, "I’m interested, and I want to hear."She could not have told why a dull weight should suddenly have laiditself upon her.

  Trevelyan sat silent.

  "First," he said presently, playing with the tassel of the curtain cord,"first, let me tell you about John."

  She flushed. She had forgotten John in the dread that lay upon her.

  "Yes, please tell me about John. Is he coming home soon?"

  "When he is able to bear the journey—and I believe a little before. Heis sick for a sight of England." Trevelyan let the last words fallslowly. He had thought to add "of you."

  After a moment he went on.

  "I had a long talk with Mackenzie—the surgeon, you know—before I left.He says the wound hurt something in the back and went clear through tothe lung. He’ll have to get out of the Service."

  Cary rose quickly. She went over to the piano and stood there pressingher hands against the top and hiding her face on them.

  "It’s too cruel," she moaned, "both you fellows—out of the Service!_It’s too cruel!_"

  Trevelyan knit and unknit his fingers, and was silent.

  "He’ll be all right—in time," he said slowly, with a dim idea of givingher comfort, "but he just won’t be physically strong enough again forthe army."

  "And you’ve resigned!"

  Trevelyan still sat in the shadows cast by the curtains. He was massingall his courage and his strength against his love.

  "Cary!" She raised her head from her arms, and she shivered at the toneof his voice, without knowing why. "Cary, if you’ll come over here—I’lltell you why—" he broke off.

  She obeyed him mechanically.

  "Sit down."

  She did as he bade her.

  "Shall I light the lamp?" she faltered. "The days are short and—and it’sdark—"

  "No, not yet. Sit here where I can see your face by the fire. There!Like that!"

  And then he began on the cause and the details of the native trouble.She moved restlessly. She did not understand the technicalities verywell, and the odd dread and oppression would not lift. She wasconscious that Trevelyan’s voice filled the room, but she scarcelyheeded his words. And then he told her of Stewart and something of whatStewart had tried to do for him, and grew eloquent over it, and sheforgot herself and the dread in listening to him. Even on the day ofthe storm in Scotland, when he had told her the stories of hischildhood, he had not been as eloquent as this. Then he halted. After awhile he resumed. He did not pause again, but went on rapidly with theold resoluteness born afresh, now that he had once begun. He continuedsteadily, mercilessly, leading up to the heart of it as he would haveaimed at and hit the bull’s eye at target practice with an unerringhand.

  "And the Colonel ordered me to make the survey. It meant danger andprobable death, and—I was afraid. I shot myself to prevent going. Ilied about it. I said the revolver had gone off. He sent John."

  He leaned forward, grim with the grimness of despair, and the moisturecame out on his face and his throbbing throat, but she did not see hisface, she only heard the words that fell heavily on the silence.

  She rose to her feet; he could see her, in the beauty of her height,silhouetted against the bright firelight. Her breast was rising andfalling quickly with emotion.

  "I don’t believe it," she cried. "There is nothing that will make mebelieve it! Why, you’re not afraid of anything! You to turn coward!"

  She paused, waiting for his denial, and remained standing.

  He rose too; came from out of the shadows and sat down in the Captain’sbig chair by the fire, where she could see and read his face.

  "I was afraid," he repeated.

  It was as if he knew no other word.

  She went over to him and dropped down by the chair, and looked up athim.

  "Tell me that it isn’t true," she said. "If you tell me that it isn’ttrue, I’ll believe you against the world."

  "It is true," he said.

  The girl pressed the palms of her hands against her cheeks and drew themslowly down, away from her face.

  Suddenly she rose to her feet and leant over, looking steadily into hisface.

  The shadowy spaces at the ends of the room grew and came to meet eachother.

  She looked down into his face searchingly and in silence, and he met herlook as a brave man meets death—squarely. Her hand dropped from hisshoulder and fell at her side lifelessly. She shrank away.

  "Good God," she whispered.

  She went over into the shadows, to the window and stood looking out,motionless. It seemed to her that she could never look at him again.

  "John saw me," said Trevelyan, over by the fire, "and he swore me tokeep quiet about it—except to you; he left that to me to decide—he mademe swear to resign. I wasn’t fit to serve England."

  He spoke without emotion and briefly, stating facts.

  After awhile he went over to her in an uncertain manner. She shrankcloser to the window.

  "Don’t come near me," she said in a low voice.

  He went back and sat down by the fire. The minutes passed.

  "If you would say something to me,—" he began, looking toward her.

  She came out of the shadows into the firelight.

  "There _is_ nothing to say," she said, and her face looked then like theface on the hospital wall.

  "I know it," he answered.

  She covered her face with her hands, and turned quickly and fell down bya chair, bur
ying her face in its cushions, and sobbing as though tobreak her heart.

  Trevelyan did not move to go to her; he did not even look at her as shewas crying there over his lost honor. Honor was so much to her. He hadalways known it. Perhaps it was for that he had first loved her.

  After awhile she moved and leaned one elbow on the seat of her chair,her cheek in her hand. She turned her face, looking into his.

  "I—I didn’t mean to be cruel," she said, and her voice caught in sobs asshe spoke. "I was—selfish. I—was only thinking of—myself. Of—of howI’d trusted you, and—and that! But oh, I’m—so sorry for—you. I—" shebroke off, impatiently brushing the tears away with her hand.

  Trevelyan stared into the fire.

  "Don’t talk that way," he said slowly, "I can bear anything but—that!"

  "What—what made you—afraid?"

  He left the big chair by the fire and came over to where she was sittingon the floor, and looked down at her.

  "I was afraid I should never see you again," he said. "I—" and he putout his hand as though to touch her hair, "I wish—well I wish, I hadknown there was something besides you in the world!"

  She said nothing.

  "What are you going to do now?" she asked after awhile.

  "I don’t know," he said slowly, "_I—don’t—know!_"

  He turned abruptly and picked up his coat and hat. He did not offer toshake hands in parting. Cary had used to help him on with his coat andshake hands, but Cary did not move to-night. He walked over to thedoor, turning to look back at her.

  "Good night," he said, in a matter of fact way, "Good-bye."

  Cary sat motionless and she looked up at him dumbly.

  "Good-bye," he repeated.

  "Good-bye," she said slowly.

  Trevelyan took the night train home—to Scotland and to old Mactier.Perhaps up there, he would learn "what he was going to do now."

  Cary sat motionless, in the shadows, by the big chair. After awhile shecrept over to the dead fire and stared at the white ashes. It seemed toher that all her faith was dead.