“My dear Kent,” Patsy’s voice was as cold as the fall wind that whistled to them through the chimney, “I know weakness when I’ve lived with it for ten years. Oh, you don’t need to remind me”—she went on restlessly—“I know I’ve liked Warren’s weakness, I’ve encouraged it, I suppose, by begging him not to be a saint and all that, like his mother and all those Boston aunts had tried to make him. And, secretly, I suppose too, I’ve rather gloried in being the stronger nature: I was willing Warren should have the cleverness, the brains, if I could direct them. I liked feeling myself always the power behind the throne, and all that sort of thing, and—well, you can’t blame me if I resent having the throne usurped in my absence!”
“Is that what you said to Warren, when he told you?” Chalmers had risen and walked over to the window. It was very cold and bleak outside.
“I said to Warren”—Patsy’s friend had never heard quite that note in her voice—oddly hollow it was, and colorless—“that as he had made the decision, he must abide by it. That we were both of us too sensitive to make a scandal, and besides there was the Angel—Junior, I mean; I told Warren we should have to go on living here, of course; but that—as he had already chosen to go his way, I certainly should not interfere. I had no idea of subjecting myself to more confessions like this morning’s.”
“Yes!” Chalmers wheeled round suddenly and came over to her. “And I suppose that while you were saying it, you felt very eloquent and injured and pleased with yourself—that you were able to put it to him so clearly, and convincingly. And you congratulated yourself for not flying into a rage and making a scene, as so many women would have done. The very fact that you were talking down to him gave you a pleasant thrill of self-approbation!—oh, I know you strong people,” he added bitterly. “You’re the weakest people in the world!”
“Kent!” She was too astonished to be furious, even.
“Yes; I mean it. Lord knows I’ve been strong long enough to know, haven’t I? But by Heavens, I’m beginning to fairly long to be weak! Here you have a man (he still stood over her, sternly) whom you have, confessedly, encouraged in his weakness, nay, taught his weakness. You teach him, too, to depend on you utterly, you give him all the complement of sense and practical judgment that his own brains and imagination need; then suddenly, and for the first time, you withdraw all this—not heartlessly, for you had Junior’s welfare to consider; but unrealizingly. You withdraw all this that Warren has depended on for years, and he finds himself all at once alone. A hand is stretched out—and you know as well as I do, Patsy, in Washington it is not a hand, but many hands. He takes one of them—a little doubtfully, yet somehow trustingly, too; and—it’s a very experienced hand, this that he’s caught hold of—he lets it drag him deeper and deeper, till he very nearly drowns. Then, all of a sudden, he comes to the top—with a little gasp of realization. He shakes himself loose—oh, yes, he did, weeks ago!—he puts in a month of the most ghastly shipwreck a man can know. And at the end of that time he has the sublime courage to tell you! And you—what do you do for him?”
“How do you know all this about Warren?” demanded Patsy, irrelevantly. This time it was she who had risen and gone over to the window. “He told me, when I asked about you, that he had scarcely seen you, since I’d been away. How do you know what he’s been through?”
“I know, Patsy—because—I’ve been through shipwreck myself, though of a different sort. Thank God!—a different sort! For I never had to screw my shrinking soul up to the point of baring it to a strong person’s knife!” Chalmers came over to her, and laid both hands on her shoulders. “Patsy, dear little girl, just remember, will you, that I am Timothy’s friend, and your friend, and—Warren’s friend; remember it, will you? For I’ve said some rather harsh things to you. But—don’t you see? Maybe it’s because I envy you—yes” (as Patsy’s eyes opened wide at him), “that may be it. You see, little pal”—Chalmers’ voice was not quite steady—“in spite of everything, Warren hasn’t failed you! Or if he has, it’s been to show himself to you, nearer perfect than he’s ever been before. He was weak, yes; even cheap, perhaps—which is much worse than weak—but through that very weakness somehow he gained strength to climb up and stand beside you—on your level, for the first time in his life. And you—oh, Patsy! you pushed him over the precipice! It’s a way strong natures have—the way of the fittest, I suppose; you didn’t see that for the first time in his life he was strong, worthy of you, worthy of all you had given him before. You saw—isn’t it so, Patsy?—only the woman?”
“Yes,” said Patsy, faintly, “it is so.” She was staring amazedly at the handsome, passionately earnest face of the clubman. “But, Kent—I don’t understand—why do you feel so keenly about all this? You”—she laughed a little nervously—“it’s almost as though you were pleading your own case. But I’m sure such a thing has never happened to you, Kent—it couldn’t somehow: you’re er—too remote, too much of a—what shall I say?—not dreamer, exactly——”
“Yes,”—the lines about the clubman’s mouth hardened—“I think you have hit it exactly, Patsy: I’ve been too much of a dreamer! But”—he slumped down into his chair again—“let all that go; it’s of no consequence anyway, my part. Just say you’ll let Warren see that it’s not going to make any difference, will you?—the—the woman, I mean? You will say that much, Patsy?”