The Fighting Chance

“Go to Florida for Lent.”

“Horror! It’s as stupid as a hothouse. It isn’t that, either, dear—only, when it was raining so deliciously the other day I was silly enough to think I scented the spring in the park. I was glad of a change you know—any excuse to stop this eternal carnival I live in.”

“What is the matter?” demanded Mrs. Ferrall, withdrawing her finger from the pages and plumping the closed book down on her knee. “You’d better tell me, Sylvia; you might just as well tell me now as later when my persistence has vexed us both. Now, what has happened?”

“I have been—imprudent,” said Sylvia, in a low voice.

“You mean,”—Mrs. Ferrall looked at her keenly—“that he has been here?”

“No. I telephoned him; and I asked him to drive with me.”

“Oh, Sylvia, what nonsense! Why on earth do you stir yourself up by that sort of silliness at this late date? What use is it? Can’t you let him alone?”

“I—No, I can’t, it seems. Grace, I was—I felt so—so strangely about it all.”

“About what, little idiot?”

“About leaving him—alone.”

“Are you Stephen Siward’s keeper?” demanded Mrs. Ferrall, exasperated.

“I felt as though I were, for awhile. He is ill.”

“With an illness that, thank God, you are not going to nurse through life. Don’t look at me that way, dear. I’m obliged to speak harshly; I’m obliged to harden my heart to such a monstrous idea. You know I love you; you know I care deeply for that poor boy—but do you think I could be loyal to either of you and not say what I do say? He is doomed, as sure as you sit there! He has fallen, and no one can help him. Link after link he has broken with his own world; his master-vice holds him faster, closer, more absolutely, than hell ever held a lost soul!”

“Grace, I cannot endure—”

“You must! Are you trying to drug your silly self with romance so you won’t recognise truth when you see it? Are you drifting back into old impulses, unreasoning whims of caprice? Have you forgotten what I know of you, and what you know of yourself? Is the taint of your transmitted inheritance beginning to show in you—the one woman of your race who is fashioned to withstand it and stamp it out?”

“I am mistress of my emotions,” said Sylvia, flushing.

“Then suppress them,” retorted Grace Ferrall hotly, “before they begin to bully you. There was no earthly reason for you to talk to Stephen. No disinterested impulse moved you. It was a sheer perverse, sentimental restlessness—the delicate, meddlesome deviltry of your race. And if that poison is in you, it’s well for you to know it.”

“It is in me,” said Sylvia, staring at the fire.

“Then you know what to do for it.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, I do,” said Grace decisively; “and the sooner you marry Howard and intrench yourself behind your pride, the better off you’ll be. That’s where, fortunately enough, you differ from your ancestors; you are unable to understand marital treachery. Otherwise you’d make it lively for us all.”

“It is true,” said Sylvia deliberately, “that I could not be treacherous to anybody. But I am wondering; I am asking myself just what constitutes treachery to myself.”

“Sentimentalising over Stephen might fill the bill,” observed Grace tartly.

“But it doesn’t seem to,” mused Sylvia, her blue gaze on the coals. “That is what I do not understand. I have no conscience concerning what I feel for him.”

“What do you feel?”

“I was in love with him. You knew it.”

“You liked him,” insisted Grace patiently.

“No—loved him. I know. Dear, your theories are sound in a general way, but what is a girl going to do about it when she loves a man? You say a young girl can’t love—doesn’t know how. But I do love, though it is true that I don’t know how to love very wisely. What is the use in denying it? This winter has been a deafening, stupefying fever to me. The sheer noise of it stunned me until I forgot how I did feel about anything. Then—I don’t know—somehow, in the rain out there, I began to wake… Dear, the old instincts, the old desires, the old truths, came back out of chaos; that full feeling here”—she laid her fingers on her throat—“the sense of expectancy, the restless hope growing out of torpid acquiescence—all returned; and, dearest, with them all came memories of him. What am I to do? Could you tell me?”

For a long while Mrs. Ferrall sat in troubled silence, her hand shading her eyes. Sylvia, leaning over her desk, idling with pen and pencil, looked around from time to time, as though awaiting the opinion of some specialist who, in full possession of the facts, now had become responsible for the patient.

“If you marry him,” said Mrs. Ferrall quietly, “your life will become a hell.”

“Yes. But would it make life any easier for him?” asked Sylvia.

“How—to know that you had been dragged down?”

“No. I mean could I do anything for him?”

“No woman ever did. That is a sentimental falsehood of the emotional. No woman ever did help a man in that way. Sylvia, if love were the only question, and if you do truly love him, I—well, I suppose I’d be fool enough to advise you to be a fool. Even then you’d be sorry. You know what your future may be; you know what you are fitted for. What can you do without Howard? In this town your rôle would be a very minor one without Howard’s money, and you know it.”

“Yes, I know it.”

“And your sacrifice could not help that doomed boy.”

Sylvia nodded assent.

“Then, is there any choice? Is there any question of what to do?”

Sylvia looked out into the winter sky, through the tops of snowy trees; everywhere the stark, deathly rigidity of winter. Under it, frozen, lay the rain that had scented the air. Under her ambition lay the ghosts of yesterday.

“No,” she said, “there is no question of choice. I know what must be.”

Grace, seated in the firelight, looked up as Sylvia rose from her desk and came across the room; and when she sank down on the rug at her feet, resting her cheek against the elder woman’s knees, nothing was said for a long time—a time of length sufficient to commit a memory to its grave, lay it away decently and in quiet befitting.

Sore doubt assailed Grace Ferrall, guiltily aware that once again she had meddled; and in the calm tenor of her own placid, marital satisfaction, looking backward along the pleasant path she had trodden with its little monuments to love at decent intervals amid the agreeable monotony of content, her heart and conscience misgave her lest she had counselled this young girl wrongly, committing her to the arid lovelessness which she herself had never known.

Leaning there, her fingers lingering in light caress on Sylvia’s bright hair, for every doubt she brought up argument, to every sentimental wavering within her heart she opposed the chilling reason of common sense. Destruction to happiness lay in Sylvia’s yielding to her caprice for Siward. There was other happiness in the world besides the non-essential one of love. That must be Sylvia’s portion. And after all—and after all, love was a matter of degree; and it was well for Sylvia that she had the malady so lightly—well for her that it had advanced so little, lest she suspect what its crowning miracles might be and fall sick of a passion for what she had forever lost.

For a week or more the snow continued; colder, gloomier weather set in, and the impending menace of Ash Wednesday redoubled the social pace, culminating in the Westervelt ball on the eve of the forty days. And Sylvia had not yet seen Siward or spoken to him again across the wilderness of streets and men.

In the first relaxation of Lent she had instinctively welcomed an opportunity for spiritual consolation and a chance to take her spiritual bearings; not because of bodily fatigue—for in the splendour of her youthful vigour she did not know what that meant.

Saint Berold was a pretty good saint, and his church was patronised by Major Belwether’s household. The major liked two things high: his game and his church. Sylvia cared for neither, but had become habituated to both the odours of sanctity and of pheasants; so to Saint Berold’s she went in cure of her soul. Besides, she was fond of Father Curtis, who, if he were every inch a priest, was also every foot of his six feet a man—simple, good, and brave.

However, she found little opportunity, save at her brief confession, for a word with Father Curtis. His days were full days to the overbrimming, and a fashionable pack was ever at his heels, fawning and shoving and importuning. It was fashionable to adore Father Curtis, and for that reason she shrank from venturing any demand upon his time, and nobody else at Saint Berold’s appealed to her. Besides, the music was hard, commonplace, even blatant at times, and, having a delicate ear, she shrank from this also. It is probable then that what comfort she found under Saint Berold’s big, brand-new Episcopal cross she extracted from observing the rites, usages, and laws of a creed that had been accepted for her by that Christian gentleman, Major Belwether. Also, she may have found some solace from the still intervals devoted to an inventory of her sins and the wistful searching of a heart too young for sadness. If she did it was her own affair, not Grace Ferrall’s, who went with her to Saint Berold’s determined always to confess to too much gambling, but letting it go from day to day so that the penance could not interfere with the next séance.

Agatha Caithness was there a great deal, looking like a saint in her subdued plumage; and very devout, dodging nothing—neither confession nor Quarrier’s occasionally lifted eyes, though their gaze, meeting, seemed lost in dreamy devotion or drowned in the contemplation of the spiritual and remote.

Plank came docilely from his Dutch Reformed church to sit beside Leila. As for Mortimer, once a vestryman, he never came at all—made no pretence or profession of what he elegantly expressed as “caring a damn” for anything “in the church line,” though, he added, there were “some good lookers to be found in a few synagogues.” His misconception of the attractions of the church amused the new set of men among whom he had recently drifted, to the unfeigned disgust of gentlemen like Major Belwether; “club” men, in the commoner and more sinister interpretation of the word; unfit men, who had managed to slip into good clubs; men, once fit, who had deteriorated to the verge of ostracism; heavy, over-fed, idle, insolent men in questionable financial situation, hard card players, hard drinkers, hard riders, negative in their virtues, merciless in their vices, and whose cynical misconduct formed the sources of the stock of stories told where such men foregather.

Mortimer had already furnished his world with sufficient material for jests of that flavour; now they were telling a new one: how, as Leila was standing before Tiffany’s looking for her carriage, a masher accosted her, and, at her haughty stare, said sneeringly: “Oh, you can’t play that game on me; I’ve seen you with Leroy Mortimer!”