The Brimming Cup

He offered her this, with a look half of apology, half of simple

courage.

She considered it and him seriously, studying his face and eyes,

listening retrospectively to the accent of his words, and immensely

astonished him by suddenly flashing a kiss on his cheek. "You're

miraculous!" she said. "You don't know how it feels; as though I'd been

floundering in a marsh, deeper and deeper, and then all at once, when I

thought I'd come to know there wasn't anything in the world but marsh,

to come out on beautiful, fine, clean earth, where I feel the very

strength of ages under my feet. You don't know how good it seems to

have a silly, romantic remark like what I said, answered the way you

did, telling the truth; how good it feels to be pulled down to what's

what, and to know you can do it and really love me too."

He had been so startled and moved by her kiss that he had heard her

words but vaguely. "I don't seem to catch hold of all that. What's it

all about?"

"It's all about the fact that I really begin to believe that you will be

loyal and tell me the truth," she told him.

He saw cause for gravity in this, remembering the great moment so

shortly back of them, and said with a surprised and hurt accent, "Didn't

you believe me, when I said I would?"

She took up his hand in hers and said rapidly, "Dear Neale, I did

believe it, for just a moment, and I can't believe anything good of

anybody for longer than that, not really in my heart of hearts. And

it's my turn to tell you some truth when I tell you about that unbelief,

what I've hardly even ever told myself, right out in words."

He was listening now, fixing on her a look of profound, intelligent

attention, as she went on, stumbling, reaching out for words, discarding

those she found, only her steady gaze giving coherence to her statement.

"You know, living the way I have . . . I've told you . . . I've seen a

great deal more than most girls have. And then, half brought up in France

with people who are clever and have their eyes wide open, people who

really count, I've seen how they don't believe in humans, or goodness, or

anything that's not base. They know life is mostly bad and cruel and

dull and low, and above all that it's bound to fool you if you trust to

it, or get off your guard a single minute. They don't teach you that,

you know; but you see it's what they believe and what they spend all

their energies trying to dodge a little, all they think they can. Then

everything you read, except the silly little Bibliothèque-Rose sort of

thing, makes you know that it's true . . . Anatole France, and Maupassant,

and Schnitzler. Of course back in America you find lots of nice people

who don't believe that. But they're so sweet you know they'd swallow

anything that made things look pleasant. So you don't dare take their

word for anything. They won't even look at what's bad in everybody's

life, they just pretend it's not there, not in their husbands, or

wives or children, and so you know they're fooled." She lowered her

voice, which faltered a little, but she still continued to look straight

into his eyes, "And as for love, why, I've just hated the sound of the

name and . . . I'm horribly afraid of it, even now."