The Torch Bearer Part 10

"Oh, Sheila!--_when you look at me like that_!"

And then Ted's face was against her breast, his arms around her. She would never weep again--for _this_ was _life_!

CHAPTER VII

Sheila had been married several months before she ceased to expect a miracle.

She had believed that moment of high rapture when, with Ted's face hidden against her breast, she had seemed to grasp life itself in her ardent young hands, to be but the forerunner of greater moments--of raptures and fulfillments compared to which the first awakening would appear no more than a pale shadow of joy.

Marriage, in some way mysterious and beautiful, would surely alter the world for her; nay, more, would trans.m.u.te her own nature into something stronger, richer, happier, a wedded nature, wedded in its lightest moods, its deepest fastnesses. She would wear Ted's ring upon her very soul, and her soul would thereby be changed and glorified.

Other wives--all wives, indeed, who marry at the dictates of their hearts--expect as much. It is the way of women to dream and hope above the earth's level, and now and then, in a rarely perfect mating or in motherhood, their dreams come true. But oftenest they wait as Sheila waited--unrewarded. And after awhile they return contentedly to the lowland of everyday reality--where many paths are pleasant and their fellow travelers, though not knights errant, are usually faithful and kind.

This, after a few months, Sheila did, too. By that time she had begun to regard the first moment of acknowledged love as unique, one from which she had no right to ask more than itself. It was enough to have had it. It _had_ been life--of that she was still convinced--but life at its high tide. And the very existence of every day--of tranquil affection and homely duty--was none the less life, too, and good after its own fas.h.i.+on.

So, missing the miracle, she set to work to discover a miracle in what she had; to find exquisite meanings in the fire upon her wedded hearth while her wedded soul remained cold and virginal. And she had the better chance to warm herself beside that fire because it never occurred to her that Ted might be in the least responsible for its limitations.

About her choice of a husband--or rather, her acceptance of the husband whom fate had chosen for her--she had no misgivings.

"Oh, Sheila, are you sure?" Mrs. Caldwell had inquired again and again in that heart-searching hour which had preceded her sanction of the engagement. "Are you _sure_?"

And Sheila had been sure, triumphantly sure. Even then, with the girl's rhapsodies ringing in her ears, Mrs. Caldwell had insisted upon an engagement of six months--"To give the child an opportunity to break it," she had confided to Peter. But the delay had proved unnecessary.

At the end of the period imposed Sheila had been as sure as ever, and she was sure still. Ted loved her. Ted needed her. Of course he was the right man for her!

If she had thought to receive more than marriage had given her, the fault was hers, she loyally decided. She had always antic.i.p.ated miracles. She had always seen life as an enchanting fairy tale, with a marvellous climax hidden somewhere in the chapters yet unread. But life wasn't a fairy tale; it was merely a bit of cheerful realism, with a happy, commonplace climax in accord with realistic standards. It hadn't been fair to demand princes and palaces and winged delights of a bit of realism! She knew now that her expectations had been childish and absurd; that she had asked for more than life had to give; that the joys of this world were simple, home-abiding things, without the wings for heavenly flights. Not even love itself was winged, and it was better so--for thus she need not fear lest it fly away as winged things are wont to do. She had prayed for ecstasy--which, at best, is fleeting. Instead she had been granted a safe and quiet happiness.

Was not destiny wiser than she?

But though she reconciled herself to the realities of life and of marriage, she could not reconcile herself to her own unchanged spirit.

She had looked to find Sheila Kent a new being, serene, complete--and Sheila Kent was neither.

"I'm just myself!" she admitted at last, when neither faith nor desire had availed to transform the fiber of her soul. "I'm just myself still. Ted used to think me a queer little girl--and I'm the same queer self now. Other married girls are satisfied with their husbands and their houses and--their babies--and I believed I would be, too.

But I'm not. Marriage hasn't made me over--and it isn't enough for me.

I want something wonderful--I want to _do_ something wonderful. I want--why, I want to _write_!"

It seemed a solution of her perplexity--the conclusion that she still wanted to write--and she seized upon it with reviving fervor. Her gift, singling her out from other girls, was the explanation of those unconquered s.p.a.ces in her soul, s.p.a.ces never destined for the foot of any man, however dear. Genius, she had heard, was always celibate, and her genius, or talent, lived on in her inviolate, a thing yet to be reckoned with, yet to be appeased.

She had not written during her engagement, nor since her marriage. Not that she had deliberately renounced her ambitions, but that her days had been crowded with other things, with things that, for the time, she thought more vital. Peter had remonstrated with her once or twice, but to no avail, and when she went from the flurry of trousseau and wedding to the more serious business of keeping house in the traditional vine-clad cottage--Mrs. Caldwell having persisted in the wisdom of separate establishments--he no longer protested at all. An industrious young housekeeper and a blooming wife was obviously not to be condoled with over thwarted aspirations. So certain unfinished ma.n.u.scripts lay forgotten in the bottom of Sheila's bridal trunk--forgotten, or at least ignored--until the day when she fixed on them as the reason of her vague discontent. Then she brought them forth with an eagerness that was, perhaps, the best answer to her self-a.n.a.lysis. Of course she had wanted to write; without knowing it, she must have wanted, for months, to write! Oh, life _wasn't_ a bit of dull realism! It was a fairy tale after all--a fairy tale of poems and novels, of gracious publishers and an appreciative public!

She had never talked to Ted about her writing. Somehow she had always been absorbed in his work, his ambitions. He had all the initiative and enterprise that Shadyville, prior to his arrival, had lacked, and his labors and successes had consumed not only his own time and thoughts, but Sheila's as well. She admired his energy; she was dazzled by the juggleries of his mediocre cleverness; she was proud to help him. Like a strong, fresh wind he filled her world--and, incidentally, he was a wind that blew away all the delicate cobwebs, the gossamer filaments of her finer gift.

But now, for the first time since Ted's return to Shadyville, Sheila's individuality rose up within her and claimed something for itself. She had wanted to write--and she _would_ write. There was no reason why she should not. Women, nowadays, were wives and artists also. Married women had "careers" as often as the unmarried. In short, fame was still hers to conquer!

She set about conquering it at once--that was Sheila's way--and when, in the middle of a busy morning, some one tapped imperiously on her closed door, she went to answer the summons with an inky finger and dream-laden eyes. But she opened the door to a vision that dispelled dreams by its more charming substance--a young woman whose smart, slender figure was clothed in a mode that had not yet reached Shadyville, and whose alert and smiling face seemed as unrelated as her garments to the sleepy little provincial town.

"Charlotte!"

"Yes," said the vision gaily, "yes--_Mrs. Theodore Kent_!"

And then the two girls were in each other's arms, laughing and chattering, and weeping a little, too, after the manner of girls--especially when there has been marriage and giving in marriage since their last meeting.

They had not seen each other for more than three years, for although Charlotte had been in America several times during that period, she had merely joined her family in New York for brief reunions, and had then hastened back to Paris where she was studying singing. They looked at each other curiously after that first embrace, and, when they were seated in Sheila's sunny sitting-room, they fell at once into confidences covering those three separated years. It was Charlotte, of course, who had food for conversation, but Sheila, as the bride, was the heroine of the occasion, even to Charlotte's broader mind.

Marriage may not fulfill the ideals of high romance, but it can always cast a halo.

"Well," said Charlotte at last, when she had heard the tale of Ted's perfections and achievements, "well, I'll wait and see what you two make of it before I give up my liberty."

"You wouldn't be giving up your liberty if you married the man you loved," protested Sheila staunchly.

"Oh, I don't know about that! Suppose I married a man who resented my music?"

"But he wouldn't--if he loved you!"

"Oh! Then Ted doesn't mind your writing?"

"Of course not!" Sheila a.s.sured her. "Why, I was writing when you came!" And she held up the inky finger.

Charlotte surveyed the finger with evident respect: "That's right! I'm glad you aren't going to be submerged by marriage. I was afraid you might be. And really, Sheila, you have talent. The 'F---- Monthly'

would never have taken that story of yours if it hadn't been exceptionally good. I know Mr. Bennett, the a.s.sociate editor, and his standards----"

"You _know_ Mr. Bennett?" interrupted Sheila. And her tone was reverent.

"Yes," said Charlotte carelessly. "I know a lot of writing folks in New York. In fact I've brought one of them home with me--Alice North, the novelist. Maybe you've read something of hers?"

"_Something_? Why, I've read everything of hers I could lay my hands on! Oh, Charlotte, I _adore_ her!"

"So do I," laughed Charlotte, "not her books, but her. She writes very well, but she's more interesting than her stories. Now, Sheila, I'll tell you what you must do--you must let me have some of your things to show her! She could be such a help to you if she found you worth the trouble. Let me have a story or two now, and come up to-morrow afternoon to tea--and to hear what she thinks of them."

Sheila caught her breath. "Oh, it's too presumptuous," she demurred, shyly. "For _me_ to bother _Alice North_!"

Her eyes were s.h.i.+ning, nevertheless, as if at sight of a long-promised land, and Charlotte presently departed with a couple of ma.n.u.scripts for the touchstone of Mrs. North's criticism.

When Ted came home that evening, he found a Sheila tremulous with excitement, her eyes s.h.i.+ning still, her cheeks, which were usually pale, flushed to a vivid rose.

"Oh, Ted," she exclaimed at once, "Charlotte is back!"

"Yes," he a.s.sented good-naturedly, "I heard about it this morning and gave her a write-up with a picture." For Ted invariably looked upon events in the terms of their newspaper value.

"Did you know that she brought Alice North home with her?"

"Alice North?"

Apparently he had not the slightest idea who Alice North might be.

"Yes--Alice North--the novelist, Ted!"

"Is she anybody special--anything of a celebrity?"