Oh, what a noose she had managed to fasten around her own neck! Would the problem never be settled, one way or the other?

What would she do if Philip tried to force her to marry him? Kill him?

Was she, then, so primitive, so savage, so much the slave of her own desires that she would slay to gain her end? She remembered Lawrence's talk when he was ill, "We killed those days, Claire, killed because we wanted fuller life, fuller knowledge, fuller expansion of our own vital existence; we were gropers after more light!"

"Supper!" she said dully, and then sat down.

They ate in silence save for the occasional necessary word, and afterward went immediately to bed.

Claire soon fell asleep, with the last thought in her mind--to live as she wanted to live she would pay any price!

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE ROMANTIC REALIST.

It was the 1st of May when Lawrence at last found himself alone with Claire and decided to speak. The instant he thought of declaring himself he was surprised at his own mental state. A panic seized him, his heart beat unsteadily, his mouth grew dry, and he could think of nothing to say.

They were out on the lake sh.o.r.e. Philip had left them on his last long trip across the plateau before starting for civilization. The warm spring wind blew around them, laden with scent of pine and flower. At their feet the water rippled and cooed little melodies. Claire sat very still, gazing wistfully at the man beside her. Her heart was a lead weight, and her brain ached with the strain of her problem.

It was late afternoon. All day she had wandered with Lawrence in comparative silence, wishing that he would speak, and observing that something troubled him.

Finally she moved uneasily, took her hand from her cheek, and said half-dreamily, "You aren't a bit talkative."

He gulped, swallowed, and laughed. "I'm too busy trying to think of something to say," he told her amusedly.

"Oh!" She was provoked in the extreme. "Have I ceased to suggest conversation? You are very tired of me, then."

"Quite the contrary. So far from it, you paralyze my tongue."

"How complimentary!" she said. "Then I suppose your excessive arguments with Philip denote your weariness of him?"

"They do."

"I suppose, if you were really fond of a person, you would never talk at all?"

"Perhaps. I don't know but that you are right."

She laughed gaily. "Lawrence," she said, "you are certainly amusing when you attempt to be flattering!"

He grew warm and uncomfortable.

"I wasn't trying to flatter. Can't you see that?" He was almost wistful.

"I don't see it. No, if you weren't trying to flatter you were surely doing the unintended in a most intricately original manner."

He shifted his position and did not answer.

"Of course," she said, "although you aren't accustomed to flattering, you've taken to doing it almost constantly."

"Well, why shouldn't I?" he asked curiously.

"Why not, if you care to?" Her reply was as gentle as if she were a submissive object of his whims.

He felt that now was the time to speak, but he could not bring himself to the point. The thought of his blindness killed all confidence.

"Hang it all," he broke out, quite as if it were a part of their previous talk, "blindness certainly does rob one of his will!"

She looked at him apprehensively. "I thought you had decided you were the master of that."

"I had, but it seems I was mistaken."

Claire laid her hand on his arm tenderly. Her eyes were dazzling.

"Lawrence, you must master that, you know."

"Why?" he said thoughtfully. "If I shouldn't, it would mean only one more human animal on the sc.r.a.p heap!"

"But you don't want to be there."

"Of course not. No one does. I don't imagine any one chooses it."

"If you go there it will be because you choose it."

"I wish I saw things your way," he observed. "At times I feel as sure of success as if it were inevitable, and then suddenly down sweeps the black uncertainty, and I am afraid, timid, and unnerved."

She looked at him sadly.

"Don't you believe in your work, Lawrence?"

"Yes, that is about all I do believe in."

"Then what is the matter?"

"It is that, after all, thousands of men have believed in their work to no avail. One can never know whether he is a fad or a real artist. It isn't only that, either. One's work, when it is his life, requires so much besides to make it possible. It is that which gives me the blue fear you see. I always imagine that the thing I want just then is absolutely essential to my better work. Perhaps it is. I don't know. I know only that I am persuaded that it is. Then I set about to get that thing and I fail."

"But do you always fail?" Claire was unconsciously pleading her own cause.

"Not always. Just often enough to scare me to death when the biggest need of my life seems just out of reach."

"Nonsense, Lawrence," she laughed. "When you were sick you talked as if you could reach out and pull down the stars, if you needed them in an endeavor to complete your life."

"Sometimes I think I could, then the reality of life comes crashing through the walls of my dream-palace, and, behold, I am standing desolate and abandoned, grasping at lights which are even too far away to be seen! I am clawing darkness for something I fancied I could reach, while, as far as I am concerned, it is clear out of s.p.a.ce and time."

She sat pensively looking across the lake.