One thing of good Stacey had gained from the tragedy. He knew Catherine now. Not entirely, by any means; but it was as though he had found a key to the locked door of her personality, and had opened the door and stepped inside just a little way. The intense shyness that wrapped her about had nothing to do with self-consciousness; he had always known that. Now he began to understand that the noble quality of her self lay in her very selflessness. She barely thought of herself consciously at all; and thus to have others do so disturbed her. She gave and gave and took nothing. It was through her immense capacity for pity—not a pity whimpering weakly over a wretched world, but a strong useful pity—that one got to know her. She had given so much of her selflessness to Stacey at the time of the catastrophe that she had given of herself, too; she could not now take back what she had given, even if she wished to do so. He was shocked and numbed by what had happened, and she continued instinctively to give him all the quiet lavish help she could. She was giving perhaps more than she knew.
One day she even brought him one of the articles she had written for a London weekly. She was humble about it, but at heart he was even humbler; for, simply worded, with no pretence at decoration, a brief, clearly stated apology for the “Let-us-eat-drink-and-be-merry” attitude of the day, it radiated a gentle warmth of feeling. Afterward she showed Stacey other articles.
Generally he trod very carefully, taking pains to say nothing that might drive this half-held prodigal friend back behind shadowy barriers of reserve. But one Sunday afternoon in October, when they had gone for a walk in the country, and the boys up ahead were plunging deliriously through heaps of dead leaves, he suddenly turned on her.
“Catherine,” he said, “you give so much—always! But you cannot be all selflessness. There must be a hidden self in you that could take a little.”
She gave him a startled look and did not speak. It was as though she had retreated to a great distance. Still she was there. He had thought she might vanish utterly.
“I think it’s a kind of shy maiden-self that you neglect,” he added. “You know next to nothing about it.”
“Oh,” she murmured, “I do take!”
But he was astonished and remorseful to perceive that her lips were trembling and her eyes moist.
“Did I shock you, Catherine?” he exclaimed. “Silly meddler I am! I’ve no business to bother you.”
“No, no,” she returned, “it’s not that! It’s only that you’re so kind.”