Susan Morrow Jones

“ For love is not an institution.”
“Sometimes; well, you know as well as I do that we can get on without love.”
“Love,” said Launa, “is the thing in life, it is—”
“What do you love?”
“Whom? What? I love life and movement—the wind and the sea. The being alive to-day is joy. Look at the grass, the river, the water! If I could only be at ‘Solitude,’ to smell the air as it comes across that sweep of woods!” ”

“ Mr. Wainbridge appeared. It was late, and he had been at his uncle’s. The room was full of poppies; the heavy odour was oppressive, and the flowers were falling—slowly, slowly they tumbled down every few minutes.
“They are the ghosts of the past,” said Launa at last, as one or two flowers fell simultaneously, and yet as it were with reluctance. “Do you hear the slow sound they make as they fall? I am very tired.”
“Your tea-gown is like moonlight, and you look divine.”
“And unearthly? I would rather be human.” ”

“ What she hardly dared acknowledge to herself was her husband’s daily increasing indifference. He had been away since the 16th, and he had not told her where he was going.
Was he often with Launa? Jealousy, a raging, burning hatred of the woman who was liked so much, filled her mind, and she stamped her foot with rage. Then she wanted to cry. To feel herself powerless, to know herself mistaken, both were new emotions, both were uncomfortably true and horrible.
Marriage, she reflected, was always a failure; to keep one’s husband as a lover is impossible. At this moment Mr. Herbert came in. ”

“ One day she went, in her canoe, up a stream, until she reached a chain of lakes where she could paddle on and on—far away into space—where the stillness was maddening yet restful.
The peace of autumn, of approaching death, lay on the woods. The maples, with their gorgeous colouring, shone and flamed in the bright sun; the birches were yellow, almost gold, in the brilliant light; occasionally a leaf fell slowly, it reminded Launa of a ghost of the end; there was dread in the creeping slowness, as of the invincible, powerful march of a quiet enemy. ”

“ Lady Blake was keeping time with her head and her foot. Time in the Waldstein! Launa felt a great wave of longing, of desire for the woods, lakes, and the vastness of the real forest, and for the air. Oh! that air! Keen sometimes, sweet, full of the smell of wild flowers, of the pine woods—and where was Paul?
The Waldstein went on and on. To her it meant spring days, movement, hope, but not in the overcrowded old land. To the others it meant different things—music always does—and Launa’s mind returned to the impression of the afternoon. It could not have been Paul alive that she had seen? ”

“ She knew her father would never consent to any marriage between herself and Paul. Launa had cultivated an ideal of women’s behaviour to other women; they should always support the wronged woman, even when it means losing a hearts desire. Until it meant losing her own heart’s desire she had derived much joy from this theory, now she realised that no one can be happy on a theory.
She played a Chopin study: relentless fate—a chilling, creeping fiend of Impossibility—went through it, which mocked the delusive sound of far-away joy and happiness somewhere—the indefinite somewhere. ”

“ You are a brute, Paul. Let me look into your eyes; they are true. It is your eyes I see when I talk to him, your voice I hear, your kisses I feel. . . . Paul, don’t tempt me. I have degraded myself enough. Leave me—go. I am wicked, I am wrong.”
“Tempt you? My God, Launa! Am I not tempted?”
“When you hold me I am strong. A woman loves a man who has a strong arm for her.”
He bent down and kissed her face, then her lips, a long, long kiss.
“Launa, can you marry any other man? Be true, dear.”
“Sit down, Paul, by me. Let me hold your hand. I feel so weak and so afraid. ”

“ Launa came as a change and a relief. She had intense vitality and energy; a waltz always affected her; it made her glad or sad. She loved the music, the motion, and she looked so desirable.
Captain Carden was not sure whether she was beautiful or not. He wanted to hear someone else say it; he distrusted his own opinion; he had no self-confidence. She was eligible, virtue of virtues; he was a man, she a woman, and as such glad to get him. Did a woman ever refuse a man with his advantages? Never.
Dancing gave Launa more colour. ”

“ His keen eyes glanced into one’s inner consciousness, and seemed hard, until he smiled. He walked with the Indian stride, which is quick and quiet. Of course he could ride, and he had the strong capable hands of a man who has been brought up to do things, and who could do them well. Paul Harvey and Launa soon became firm friends, for they understood each other. They loved the same things; the witchery of the woods, of the canoe, and of the sea was real and tangible to them both, and he loved music, as did she. ”

“ For some days Launa stayed with her. Lily was more than miserable; she was crushed, and could not bear to be alone.
There was so much inaction, none of those details which have to be fulfilled when anyone dies at home, no work was to be done except the purchasing of black, no beautiful flowers to arrange, no farewell look, painful, yet a comfort, for in the last sleep the wayfarer appears at peace. ”

“ My husband was nice; we never quarrelled, but we never made it up. Nice men do not love women; they ask us to marry them, to be mothers to their children. Devils love us and often leave us.”
For some time there was silence.
“You like Mr. Herbert?” again asked Mrs. Phillips.
“He wants to marry you,” said Launa.
“He thinks he does. I am afraid of marriage. I am four-and-twenty and I feel fifty; he is thirty and seems twenty.”
“If I were a man,” said Launa, “I would love you. You are not merely beautiful; you are more—not only attractive, you will never grow old.” ”

“ Music took the place of her out-of-door life, and she became so absorbed in it that she only occasionally missed and regretted her former wanderings. It was as if she had experienced its wonderful power for the first time, and drank from a cup of intoxicating sweetness.
She went to dances, and discovered that men found her attractive, and naturally she soon learned how to make herself agreeable. At the same time she realised that most men love a woman for her bodily charm.
“Men are very animalish, Whitey,” said Launa one day, after having made a successful appearance at an evening reception. ”

“ During all these long, long days of sorrow and direful longing, Mr. Wainbridge wrote to her. Almost every day a letter came, and she began to look for them and to answer them. At first she had only sent him scrawls, but he had gradually drifted into an intimate—a most intimate friend.
She often re-read his letters, and there was more in them than the actual words said. She gave him credit for an intuition which he did not possess. He loved her, and he divined that she did not love him; she could almost love him for that. Women usually love men for imaginary qualities. ”

“ The women followed him—Launa still stood by Paul, who held her hand. She even returned the pressure of his fingers. Mr. Wainbridge went towards her, and Paul left the room.
“Good-bye, Launa,” said Mr. Wainbridge. “Good-bye. I suppose it is all over; I suppose you could not forget.”
“Forget. Do not say what I never can forget.”
“And yet women have faced the Divorce Court for a man they love.”
“When a woman loves; but when she pities—no. I told you once—”
“I am not married to her,” he continued, with what he considered much passion. “You know I do not believe in marriage as a binding ceremony. ”

“ But it was all over.
“He is quiet, and bears it well,” thought Lord Wainbridge; but then we should always bear the result of our own wrong-doing with philosophy. No one—Lord Wainbridge least of all—would have pitied him had he not endured it with patience. Inwardly Hugh Wainbridge was raging—raging with a wild longing to possess Launa—to have held her in his arms alone, while she was his—to have kissed the life and breath out of her. ”

“ They talked about clothes, while Launa remembered the queer dark evening, the half-pretty Indian girl, and heard the wailing sobs of her baby, and then she saw Paul’s face full of anger. Love was there, hatred as well, as he said, “Go away,” to the girl. She shuddered, and he thought her angry—simply angry—good that he could think she felt so slight an emotion. Women are angry every day with their maids, and their dressmakers, and their rivals, and it leaves no impression, not even a wrinkle; there remains no ache whatever, unless it be weariness.
“I love crepon,” she said to Mrs. Montmorency. ”

“ With Herbert life was joy, and, had she not firmly believed it could not last, real happiness would have been hers.
Their honeymoon had lasted for three weeks, three weeks of absolute happiness, tempered only by her husband’s reflections of sorrow for Launa—for he admired Launa. Lily did likewise, and she feared her, too. Lily wondered whether she was to be the one who cared most; in all marriages one cares more than the other. She had always felt a contempt for women who show they care while their husbands seem indifferent. ”

“ Launa looked at her and at the child; its hair was more curly, and not quite so black as the long, straight locks of Indian children.
“What a queer baby!” she exclaimed.
She looked at her companion. He was digging with his stick in the red clay of the road; his eyes were hidden; a red flush mounted to his forehead, and he was singularly embarrassed. She turned away and walked slowly on, followed by him in silence.
“What is that noise?” she said.
They heard a sound like a moan quite near them, and it grew louder; something—some animal—was suffering intensely. ”

“ He could not bear to leave the land which Naomi had loved, whilst dwelling there without her was misery and torment, and yet he loved it too. That land exercises an indescribable fascination over impressionable folk; its intenseness, its wild beauty and passion, the rapid, boiling rivers full of fish, and the quiet, still lakes; the grandeur of the granite rocks, the hills, and vast forests of pine, fir, and maple; and, above all, the turbulent rapture and stormy joy of the sea, crashing against the iron-bound coast. Archer’s home was situated about one hundred yards from the shore. ”

“ Paul wrote to Launa; then he waited and did not go down to see her, much as he longed to do so.
One afternoon he met Sylvia alone. She greeted him with joy. She looked different.
“You look wicked,” he said; and she laughed.
“When are you going to Launa? Go soon. One woman may as well think she is going to be happy in this world. As for me, I have learned that there is no happiness anywhere. I have vanquished my illusions.”
“How is Launa?”
“Alone down there in this dreary weather,” she replied. “She sent us all away—got rid of us very cleverly, even of Mrs. Herbert, and is there by herself.” ”

“ Wainbridge, of that he was sure.
Launa was alone.
They talked for some moments, the conversation was led by her to Newfoundland, but he took no interest in that.
“When are you going to be married?” he asked.
“When? I know not. Talk of something else.”
“I will talk about you. It is of no use for you to change the subject. I love you, love you, and you are mine. You have no right to marry anyone but me. You belong to me.”
Paul was as a god, knowing not merely good and evil, but love and light.
“It is my kisses you will long and hunger for, my arms which should be round you, not his.” ”

“ Launa was so absolutely ignorant of men; she knew only one man, and she tried to forget him. She had believed in them all as a class, and in their chivalrous respect for women—indefinite women—and in their everlasting love for one particular woman at last, but her belief was tottering.
That all men were brave she believed, too, it was part, an essential part, of her idea of a man, as all women are lovely and good. Of course she knew women existed with protruding teeth, who have no attraction, but men do not love them. Mrs. Carden she classed among them. ”

“ George.
“Sylvia, then,” continued Mr. Wainbridge, “was very religious. She did not believe in marriage after divorce. Fairmouth could easily have got rid of his wife; but Sylvia was firm, so he left her and then went away. She probably sent him.”
“How terrible!” said Launa. “Could they not have met sometimes? Might not his love have been a comfort to her?”
“Moralists say not,” said Mr. Wainbridge.
“Such love cannot be real,” said Launa. “I used to think love was immortal.”
“It would be immortal,” said Mr. George. “Too pure for this earth.” ”

“ Herbert?”
“I think him clever, and he evidently likes you.”
“Yes, he is clever. But tell me, Launa, are you modern?”
“In what way?”
“Would you ask a man who loved you if he had a past? Would you object to it if he had?”
“If a past were a present I would object. Can’t men be without past? Is there always a woman they have loved first?”
She seemed to hear the wailing of a child and the rustling of the trees, and to feel the fresh breeze. She shuddered. Mrs. Phillips observed the shudder and the look.
“I do not object. Men are different; they are coarse. They like kissing—indiscriminate kissing.” ”

“ I am not afraid of a breach of promise, but nowadays marriage is labelled a ‘question,’ and the reviewers are so tired of it; they are all married. I fear I must leave you now, Miss Launa. Good-bye.”
“Be a good boy! Don’t chase the cat or—Good-bye.”
“Suppose you were situated as they were,” said Mr. Wainbridge, “would you have sent him away? Would you have been afraid?”
“Afraid?” she repeated, with a contempt for fear. “No, I would have loved him—forever and ever. Why, because a man is bound to a vile woman, need he make the woman he loves vile because he loves her, or because he is bound?” ”