“There’s nothing to tell. We thought we were perfectly suited, perfectly sympathetic. Our feelings had stood every test but marriage. When it came to that, they failed. It was a case of non-adjustment of feelings—different points of view—different natures, perhaps. I saw facing me the demand that I should change myself, root and branch, and become a different creature from what God had made me. This I could not do. I might have pretended and acted, but she was not the woman to tolerate the wretched puppet of a man which that would have made of me. Her changing was a thing I never thought of. I was never mean enough to think that a woman was bound to sacrifice her individuality in marriage. Why should a wife surrender that sacred citadel any more than a husband? How odious should I feel myself, if I had ever taken that position in the slightest degree! And shams were out of the question with us. Neither of us could have tolerated anything uncandid—anything that smacked of a tacit convention.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Martha broke out impulsively:
“I can’t help thinking that it might have been prevented. It may be that you were too proud. Have you ever thought that?”
“No,” he said, with a certain grimness. “I have never taken that view of the case. She made it so entirely plain that she wanted to be rid of me at once and forever—that there was no room for reflection on that point. If there is a man alive who could have held her bound after her words to me, I hope I may never make his acquaintance.”
The appearance of agitation which had marked the beginning of the interview was now utterly gone from Harold. He spoke deliberately, and as if with a certain satisfaction in the sense of getting his thoughts into form.
Again there was a pause. Then Martha said, speaking very low:
“But, Harold, you are doing without love.”
“I have had it,” he answered, “and what has been is mine, to keep forever. I have lost my wife, but the greatness, the exaltation, of my love increases. I have learned that love is subjective and independent. A renunciation is only an episode in it. I deserve no pity. No, Martha; never fall into the mistake of pitying me. I should pity you from my heart if I thought you would miss what I have had; and the gods may be lenient to as sweet a soul as yours. You may have the joy, some day, without the renunciation.”
“I don’t want it! I wouldn’t have it!” cried the girl, vehemently. “No one will ever love me, and I wouldn’t have them to. It would break my heart. It makes me seem ridiculous even to speak of it. I want you to have love and joy. That is all I ask.”
“Well, I’ve had it. Be satisfied. Of the two of us,—except that you have hope, which I have not,—you are the one to be pitied.”