"But you try sometimes?"

"I find it helps me," said Corydon--"once in a great while I find lines in my mind; and I put them together, so that I can say them over, and remind myself of things."

"I see," said Mrs. Channing. "Tell me the poem you quoted."

"I--I don't believe you'd think much of it," said Corydon, hesitating.

"I never expected anybody--

"I'd be interested to hear it," declared her visitor.

So Corydon recited in a low voice a couple of stanzas which had come to her in the lonely midnight hours. Thyrsis listened with interest--he had never heard them before:

"What matters the tired heart, What matters the weary brain?

What matters the cruel smart Of the burden borne again?

I was sick with the Nay of life-- With my lonely soul's refrain; But the essence of love is strife, And the meaning of life is pain."

There was a pause. "Do you--do you think that is worth while at all?"

asked Corydon.

"It is evidently sincere," replied Mrs. Channing. "I think you ought to study and practice."

"I can't make much effort at it--"

But the other went on: "What concerns me is the att.i.tude to life it shows. It is terrible that a young girl should feel that way. You must not let yourself get into such a state!"

"But how can I help it?"

"You must have something that occupies your mind! That is what you need, truly it is! You've got to stop thinking about yourself--you've got to get outside yourself, somehow!"

Thyrsis caught his breath. He could tell from the tone of the speaker's voice that she was laboring with Corydon, putting forth all her energies to impress her. He was tempted to step forward and cry out, "No, no!

That's not the way! That won't work!"

But instead, he stood rooted to the spot, while Mrs. Channing went on--"This unhappiness comes from the fact that you are so self-centred.

You must get some constructive work, my dear, if it's only training your baby. You must realize that you are not the only person who has troubles in the world. Why, I know a poor washerwoman, who was left a widow with four children to care for--"

And then suddenly Thyrsis heard a voice cry out in anguish, "Oh, oh!

stop!" He heard his wife spring up from her chair.

"What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Channing.

"I can't listen to you any more!" cried Corydon. "You don't know what you're saying!--You don't understand me at all!"

There was a pause. "I'm sorry you feel that," said Mrs. Channing.

"I had no right to talk to you!" exclaimed the other. "There's no one can understand! I have to fight alone!"

At this point Thyrsis went into the kitchen, and made some noise that they would hear. Then he called, "Are you there, dearest?"

"Yes," said Corydon; and he went out upon the piazza. He saw her standing, white and tense.

"Are you still talking?" he said, with forced carelessness.

And as Mrs. Channing answered "Yes," Corydon said, quickly, "Excuse me a moment," and went into the house.

So the poet sat and talked with his guest about the state of the weather and the condition of the roads; until at last her husband arrived, saying that it was time they were starting. Corydon did not appear again, and so finally Thyrsis accompanied them out to their car, and saw them start off. They promised to come again, but he knew they would not keep that promise.

Section 5. He went back to the house, and after some search he found Corydon down in the woods, whither she had fled to have out her agony.

"Has that woman gone?" she panted, when he came near.

"Yes, dear," he said. "She's gone."

"Oh!" cried Corydon. "How dared she! How dared she!"

"Get up, sweetheart," said Thyrsis. "The ground is wet."

"She's gone off in her automobile!" exclaimed the girl, pa.s.sionately.

"She spent last night at a hotel that charged twelve dollars a day, and then she told me about her washerwoman! Now she's gone back to her beautiful home, with servants and a governess and a piano and everything else she wants! And she talked to me about 'occupation'! What _right_ had she to come here and trample on my face?"

"But why did you let her, dearest?"

"How could I _help_ myself? I had no idea--"

"But how did you get started?"

"I've n.o.body to confide in--n.o.body!" cried Corydon. "And she wanted to know about me--she led me on. I thought she sympathized with me--I thought she understood!"

"She's a woman of the world, my dear."

"She was just pulling me to pieces! She wanted to see how I worked!

Don't you see what she was looking for, Thyrsis--she thought I was _material!_"

"She only writes about the Greeks," said Thyrsis, with a smile.

"I'm a horrible example! I'm neurasthenic and self-centred--I'm the modern woman! She read me a long lecture like that! I ought to get busy!"

"Dearest!" he pleaded, trying to soothe her.

"Busy"! repeated Corydon, laughing hysterically. "Busy! I wash and dress and amuse a baby! I get six meals a day for him, I get three meals for us, and clean up everything. And the rest of the day I'm so exhausted I can hardly stand up, and a good part of the time I'm sick besides. And then, if I think about my troubles, it's because I've nothing to do!"

"My dear," Thyrsis replied, "you should not have put yourself at her mercy."

"How I hate her!" cried Corydon. "How I _hate_ her!"

"You must learn to protect yourself from such people, Corydon."

"I won't meet them at all! I'm not able to face them--I've none of their weapons, none of their training. I don't want to know about them, or their kind of life! They have no souls!"