’Tis woman’s whole existence!
and she had accepted the common feminine view that the couplet is a testimonial to man’s coarser nature, and a subtle tribute to feminine “soul” and superiority. She saw in it suddenly the whole story of feminine weakness and selfishness. She honored Martin Collingwood that love had not been his whole existence. There in her lap, his head swathed in bloody bandages, was gasping out his life a man who, however manly he might have been in other respects, had been essentially feminine in his disposition to make love his whole existence; and who had felt that the thwarting of the one natural desire for the woman of his choice was sufficient to dull all the normal manly instincts of ambition and accomplishment.
She glanced about her at the evidences of ruin, and she bowed her head in gratitude that it had been her lot to come to this primitive land, to know humiliation and sorrow and loneliness, and to free herself in its solitudes from the false ideals of her training. She looked down the long vista of years and saw herself always at Martin’s side, helping, working with him, bearing with his weaknesses, struggling with her own; but the end of it all was life and character for them both, something bigger than mere loving or being loved. If she uttered a sigh or two for what was irrevocably gone, it was not wholly in regret. It was no dream life she was going back to, no Summer in Arcady (that was past), but plain, prosaic marriage, with disappointments and misunderstandings and misconceptions to be outlived and to make the best of; nor was there anything but health in the thought that Martin might find just as much to overlook as she might. Children would come to them, and she saw herself bearing them, rearing them, guiding into intelligent and ethical expression the forceful inheritance which would be theirs from him, finding in them the realization of her own will and soul expression, rejoicing in his pride in them. He would work and she would bear,—strange anomaly of fate that carried back to its primitive beginnings the product of so much effort and vanity and ambition!
The sunshine beat pitilessly on the leaf shelter; the fatigue of the long vigil told upon her; her crowding thoughts wearied her. She held herself upright with difficulty, and her eyelids drooped. Sitting unsupported, she slept.
Her own body falling forward roused her after the briefest of naps. Her quick movement to regain her balance jarred Kingsnorth, and he opened his eyes. His face was half turned to the sea, whereas her back was set squarely against it; and he instantly perceived the long trail of a steamer’s smudge borne ahead of the vessel which was still hull down. He pointed feebly to call her attention to it.
“Good old Martin,” he murmured weakly. “I knew—he—would come. He’s not—like— me. He—doesn’t fail.”
Charlotte stared, her eyes aglow, her face aflame with hope. She lifted her hand to her throat, choked by what was throbbing there. There were hope and succor fast enough; but also what message of despair might not that vessel bring? What if she, like Kingsnorth, had delayed too long, and the Unseen Powers had decreed there should be no more chances for her? Then as she glanced down, she met Kingsnorth’s intent eyes, puzzled, their keen intelligence slightly dimmed, but full of some question that he dared not ask. A sudden impulse moved her.
“I want to tell you before it is too late,” she said with difficulty, “just how I feel. I glory in Martin Collingwood; I am glad I am his wife. I have had the indecency to be ashamed of myself for the most human and womanly thing I ever did in my life. Well, I’m emancipated.” She stopped, drew a long breath, and broke into a little, low, nervous laugh. “There seems to be growing up a conviction among women that the only door of emancipation is the divorce court, and that the only way to assert their personality is in insurrection. I don’t want that door. I had the effrontery to marry Martin Collingwood to be adored—as if either he or I or anybody else has the right to make that the end of life. That is the cry of the effete, of the thing which must soon fall into decay. But Heaven helping me, I’m going to make myself into a woman, and I’m going to be the right influence in his life. It’s not going to be easy or free from heartache, but we’ll do it.” A sudden recollection overcame her. Her bravery dropped from her, the light vanished from her eye. “If it isn’t too late,” she whispered, “if it isn’t too late.”
“No, no,” Kingsnorth said, though some torment, physical or mental, twisted his lips into uncouth shapes as he dragged out the words. “He’ll come. Almighty God wouldn’t keep a man—from this.” With which words, of a poetic consistency with the weakness which had been his undoing, the voice of John Kingsnorth fell into eternal silence. For half an hour longer, perhaps, his eyes remained open, staring curiously, wistfully, sometimes at her face, sometimes at the deepening vapor line upon the sky. The steamer came full into view, a coastguard boat, undoubtedly heading for the island. The day’s heat diminished; the shadows lengthened; the sea ran more and more gently; and the light of late afternoon deepened to etherealized amber. Its magic seemed to bring peace and resignation to the dying man. Once again with a pathetic sigh he turned his face to hers and tried to nestle closer to her as a penitent child clings to the mother who has conquered him. She bent and kissed him again, this time upon the lips. Shortly after, she perceived that he was unconscious.
Still the labored breathing went on and on a long time,—time enough for their servants to gather, a meek and hospitable group some little distance away, watching the vessel which would restore the whites to their old status on the island; time enough for the steamer to drop her anchor and to put out a boat; but at last, in a long shuddering sigh, it ceased. John Kingsnorth, disreputable offspring of a proud family, had gone to his reckoning. In time they would go to theirs.