The Fighting Chance

"If you had the courage of a sparrow you'd make life worth something for us both," he said.

"I know it; I haven't; but I seem to possess the remainder of his lordship's traits--inconsequence, self-centred selfishness, the instinct for Fifth Avenue nest-building--all the feathered vices, all the unlovely personality and futility and uselessness of my prototype. … Only, as you observe, I lack the quality of courage."

"I don't know how much courage it requires to do what you're going to do," he said sulkily.

"Don't you? Sometimes, when you wear a scowl like that, I think that it may require no more courage than I am capable of. … And sometimes--I don't know."

She crossed her knees, one slender ankle imprisoned in her hand, leaning forward thoughtfully above the water.

"Our last day," she mused; "for we shall never be just you and I again--never again, my friend, after we leave this rocky coast of Eden. … I shall have hints of you in the sea-wind and the sound of the sea; in the perfume of autumn woods, in the whisper of stirring leaves when the white birches put on their gold crowns next year." She smiled, turning to him, a little gravely: "When the Lesser Children return with April, I shall not forget you, Mr. Siward, nor forget your mercy of a day on them; nor your comradeship, nor your sweetness to me. … Nor your charity for me, nor all that you overlook so far in me,--under the glamour of a spell that seems to hold you still, and that still holds me. … I can answer for my constancy so far, until one more spring and summer have come and gone--until one more autumn comes, and while it lasts--as long as any semblance of the setting remains which had once framed you; I can answer for my constancy as long as that. … Afterwards, the snow!--symbol of our separation. I am to be married a year from November first."

He looked up at her in dark surprise, for he had heard that their wedding date had been set for the coming winter.

"A year's engagement?" he repeated, unconvinced.

"It was my wish. I think that is sufficient for everybody concerned." Then, averting her face, which had suddenly lost a little of its colour: "A year is little enough," she said impatiently. "I--what has happened to us requires an interval--a decent interval for its burial. … Death is respectable in any form. What dies between you and me can have no resurrection under the snow. … So I bring to the burial my tribute--a year of life, a year of constancy, my friend; symbol of an eternity I could have given you had I been worth it." She looked up, flushed, the forced smile stamped on lips still trembling. "Sentiment in such a woman as I! 'A spectacle for Gods and men,' you are saying--are you not? And perhaps sentiment with me is only an ancient instinct, a latent ancestral quality for which I, ages later, have no use." She was laughing easily. "No use for sentiment, as our bodies have no use for that fashionable little cul-de-sac, you know, though wise men say it once served its purpose, too. … Stephen Siward, what do you think of me now?"