"Since my return, I have become aware of the situation which has developed between yourself and my wife. Her welfare is dearer to me than anything else in the world; and after thinking it over, I concluded that her welfare required that I should explain to you the relationship which exists between us. It seems unlikely that you could know about it otherwise, for it is a very unusual relationship.
"I suppose there is no need for me to tell you that Corydon is not happy. She never has been happy as my wife, and I fear that she never will be. She is by nature warm-hearted, craving affection and companionship. I, on the other hand, am by nature impersonal and self-absorbed—I am compelled by the exigencies
of my work to be abstracted and indifferent to things about me. I perceived this before our marriage, but not clearly enough to save her; it has been her misfortune that I have loved her so dearly that I have been driven to attempt the impossible. I am continu-ually deceiving myself into the belief that I am succeeding —and I am continually deceiving Corydon in the same way. It has been our habit to talk things out between us frankly; but this is a truth from which we have shrunk instinctively. I have always seen it as the seed of what must grow to be a bitter tragedy.
"The possibility that Corydon might come to love some other man was one that I had not thought of-it was very stupid of me, no doubt. But now it has happened; and I have worked over the problem with all the faculties I possess. A man who was worthy of Corydon's love would be very apt, under the circumstances, to feel that he must crush his impulses towards her. But when we were married, it was with the agreement that our marriage should be binding upon us only so long 1 as it was for the highest spiritual welfare of both; and by that agreement it is necessary that we should stand at all times. My purpose in writing to you is to let you know that I have no claim upon Corydon which prohibits her from continuing her acquaintance with you; and that if in the course o£ time it should become clear that Corydon would be happier as your wife than as mine, I should regard it as my duty to step aside. Having said this, I feel that I have done my part, I leave the matter in your hands, with the fullest confidence in your sincerity and good faith."
Thyrsis wrote this letter, and read it a couple of times. Then he decided to sleep over it; and the next morning he wakened, and read it again—with a shock
of surprise. He found it a startling letter. It opened up vistas to his spirit; vistas of loneliness and grief -and then again, vistas of freedom and triumph. If he were to mail it, it would be irrevocable; and it would probably mean that he would lose Corydon. And could he make up his mind to lose her? His swift thoughts flew to their parting; there were tears in his eyes— his love came back to him, as it had when he thought she was dying. But then again, there came a thrill of exultation; the captive lion within him smelt the air of the jungle, and rattled his chains and roared.
Throughout breakfast he was absent-minded and ill at ease; he bid Corydon a farewell which puzzled her by its tenderness, and then started to walk to Bellevue with the letter. Half way in, he stopped. No, he could not do it—it was a piece of madness ; but then he started again—he must do it. He found himself pacing up and down before the post office, where for nearly an hour he struggled to screw his courage to the sticking-point. Once he started away, having made up his mind that he would take another day to think the matter over; but after he had walked half a mile or so, he changed his mind and strode back, and dropped the letter in the box.
And then a pang smote him. It was done! All the way as he walked home he had to fight with an impulse to go back, and persuade the postmaster to return the letter to him!
§ 12. THYRSIS figured that the fatal document would reach Mr. Harding that afternoon; and the next morning in his anxiety he walked a mile or two to meet the mail-carrier on his way. Sure enough, there was a
reply from the clergyman. He tore it open and read it swiftly:
"I received your letter, and I hasten to answer. I cannot tell you the distress of mind which it has caused me. There has been a most dreadful misundertanding, and I can only hope that it has not gone too far to be corrected. I beg you to believe me that there has been nothing between your wife and myself that could justify the inference you have drawn. Your wife was in terrible distress of spirit, and I visited her and tried to comfort her—such is my duty as a clergyman, as I conceive it. I did nothing but what a clergyman should properly do, and you have totally misunderstood me, and also your wife, who is the most innocent and gentle and trusting of souls. She is utterly devoted to you, and the idea that the help I have tried to give her should be the occasion of any misunderstanding between you is dreadful for me to contemplate.
"I must implore you to believe this, and dismiss these cruel suspicions from your mind. If I were to be the cause of breaking up your home, and wrecking Cory-don's life, it would be more than I could bear. I have a most profound belief in the sanctity of the institution of marriage, and not for anything in the world would I have been led to do, or even to contemplate in my own thoughts, anything which would trespass upon its obligations. I repeat to you with all the earnestness of which I am capable that your idea is without basis, and I beg you to banish it from your mind. You may rely upon it that I will not see your wife again, under any circumstances imaginable."
Thyrsis read this, and then stared before him
with knitted brows. "Why, what's the matter with the man?" he said to himself. And then he read the letter over again, weighing its every phrase. "Did he think my letter was sarcasm?" he wondered. "Did he think I was angry?"
He went to his study and got the rough draft of his own letter, and reread and pondered it. No, he concluded, it was not possible that Mr. Harding had thought he was angry. "He's trying to dodge!" he exclaimed. "He can't bring himself to face the thing!"
But then again, he wondered. Could it be that the man was right; could it be that Corydon had misunderstood him and his attitude? Or had he perhaps experienced a reaction, and was now trying to deny his feelings ?
For several hours Thyrsis pondered the problem; and then he went and sat by her, as she was reading on the piazza. "You haven't heard anything more from Mr. Harding, have you?" he asked.
"Nothing," said Corydon.
"What do you suppose he intends to do?"
"I—I don't know," she said. "I don't think he means to come back."
"But why not, dear?"
"He's afraid to trust himself, Thyrsis."
"You think he really cares for you, then?"
"Yes, dear."
"But, how can you be sure?" he asked.
At which Corydon smiled. "A woman has ways of knowing about such things," she said.
"I wish you'd tell me about it," said he.
But after a little thought, she shook her head. "Maybe some day, but not now. It wouldn't be fair to him.
It isn't going any further, and that's enough for you to know."
"He must be unhappy, isn't he?" said Thyrsis, art-fully.
"Yes," she answered, "he's unhappy, I'm sure. He takes things very seriously."
Thyrsis paused a moment. "Did he tell you that he loved you?" he asked.
"No," said @orydon. "He—he wouldn't have permitted himself to do that. That would have been, wrong."
"But then—what did he do?"
"He looked at me," she said.
"When he went off the other day—did he know how you still felt?"
"Yes, Thyrsis; why do you ask?"
"I thought you might have been deceiving yourself."
At which she smiled and replied, "I wouldn't have bothered to tell you in that case."