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Updated: May 16, 2025
She won't worship you any the less because you don't worship yourself. That's the mad way they have women. It's an awful challenge. You've got a fight before you, if you don't refuse it.". "God!" groaned Marshby to himself, "it is a fight. I can't refuse it." Wilmer put his question without mercy. "Do you want to?"
In that sitting Marshby was at first serious and absent-minded. Though his body was obediently there, the spirit seemed to be busy somewhere else. "Head up!" cried Jerome at last, brutally. "Heavens, man, don't skulk!" Marshby straightened under the blow. It hit harder, as Jerome meant it should, than any verbal rallying. It sent the man back over his own life to the first stumble in it.
He forced the boy out of evil associations when he ought to have led him. You know the rest of it. The boy was desperate. He killed himself." "When he was drunk. Marshby wasn't responsible." "No, not directly. But you know that kind of mind. It follows hidden causes. That's why his essays are so good. Anyway, it has crippled him. It came when he was too young, and it marked him for life.
There was something majestic in her mental attitude. Wilmer felt how noble her maturity was to be, and told himself, with a thrill of pride, that he had done well to love her. "Marshby is coming," he said. "I want to show you both the picture." Mary shook her head. "Not this morning," she told him, and he could see how meagre canvas and paint must seem to her after her vision of the body of life.
"I want her to be happy," said Marshby, with a simple humility afar from cowardice. "I want her to be safe. I don't see how anybody could be safe with me." "Well," pursued Wilmer, recklessly, "would she be safe with me?" "I think so," said Marshby, keeping an unblemished dignity. "I have thought that for a good many years." "But not happy?" "No, not happy. She would We have been together so long."
If I were asked what kind of a world I'd like to live in, I'd say one where the corners of Mary's mouth keep quirked up all the time. Let's talk about Marshby's picture. It's going to be your Marshby." "What do you mean?" "Not Marshby's Marshby yours." "You're not going to play some dreadful joke on him?" Her eyes were blazing under knotted brows. "Mary!"
They're lovely angels with women's clothes on. Aunt Celia says if I looked like that I'd carry all before me. But, you see, you've always been partial to me." "And you think I'm not partial to Marshby?" "It isn't that. It's only that they say you look inside people and drag out what is there. And inside him oh, you'd see his hatred of himself!" The tears were rolling unregarded down her face.
"Why couldn't I?" asked Marshby, still from that abiding scorn of his own ways.
"It isn't bad," said Marshby, unconsciously straightening. "Go ahead, Jerome. Turn us all into field-marshals." "Not all," objected Wilmer, seeming to dash his brush at the canvas with the large carelessness that promised his best work. "The jobs wouldn't go round. But I don't feel the worse for it when I see the recruity stepping out, promotion in his eye."
He has written his letter." "Marshby?" "You knew he got his appointment?" "No; I saw something had him by the heels, but he's been still as a fish." "It came three days ago. He has decided not to take it. And it will break his heart." "It will break your heart," Wilmer opened his lips to say; but he dared not jostle her mood of unconsidered frankness. "I suppose I expected it," she went on.
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