"I mean," answered Mrs. North, "that you are already doing remarkable work--that you will go far--unless----"

"Unless what?" breathed Sheila.

"Will you let me advise you?"

"Oh, if you only will! What shall I do?" And Sheila bent trusting, obedient eyes upon her.

"Do? Dear child, I can tell you in a word. You must renounce!"

"Renounce?" repeated Sheila vaguely.

"Yes, renounce!" And Alice North turned a face of pale sacrifice upon her--with that inevitable instinct for the dramatic. Few women had renounced less than she--less, at least, of what pleased them--but at that moment, in the intensity of her artistic fervor, she believed herself an ascetic for her work's sake.

"The common lot of womanhood is not for you," she declared. "You must live for your art!" And her voice trembled with the touching earnestness that she had so easily a.s.sumed--and would as easily cast off.

To Sheila, however, there never came a doubt of Mrs. North's deep sincerity. She had listened, as if to a priestess, while the novelist proclaimed her sublime creed of renunciation, and she now offered the obstacle to it in her own situation with a sense of having fallen from grace in being thus human:

"But I'm married, you know."

"And so am I. But I am consecrated, nevertheless, to my art. And so, my dear, must you be. You must give yourself utterly,--_utterly_--to your art! Art won't take less. _Your_ husband must live for _you_--instead of your living for him after the fashion of most wives.

And you'll be worth his living for--I'm sure of that."

"I--I don't understand," faltered Sheila. "I don't understand what it is I mustn't do for Ted."

Alice North held her hands more closely and fixed her luminous eyes upon her--eyes which, to many before Sheila, had seemed to shine with the light of a beautiful soul: "You mustn't do for him the one thing that you and he will want most--you mustn't have children for him! My dear, _you_ must be a mother with your _brain_--not with your body.

You can't do both--at least, worthily--and you must give yourself to creation with your mind. There are women enough already to become mothers of the other sort!"

Sheila did not reply. Slowly the glow faded from her face, from her eyes. Slowly and listlessly she withdrew her hands from Mrs. North's fervid clasp and leaned back in her chair. Clearly the supreme moment had pa.s.sed; the flame of her ardor had flickered out. Mrs. North glanced curiously at her. An instant before, the girl had been radiant, tremulous with aspiration and with hope. Now she was apathetic and cold, her spirit no more than a handful of ashes.

The silence lengthened--grew heavy with meaning. Alice North put out her hand again: "I trust I haven't intruded--offended?"

"Oh, no," said Sheila stiffly, "you have been very kind, and--I am sure--very wise." But her frank gaze had grown guarded; her whole manner had become that of defensive reserve.

Yes, clearly, the great moment was over; the drama was ended.

"What a queer girl," remarked Mrs. North! to Charlotte, when Sheila had gone. "I predicted a phenomenal future for her--I had her tingling to her finger tips. Then--quite suddenly--the light, the fire was quenched. And do what I would, I couldn't kindle it again. It was very strange--unless----"

"Unless----?"

"Unless she's going to have a child. I told her that she mustn't have children."

"You mean," cried Charlotte incredulously, "that you advised her to shirk the greatest experience possible to a woman? You advised her to forego _that_?"

But Alice North lifted her pretty brows and shrugged her histrionic shoulders with an air of fine distaste. "Really, Charlotte," she drawled, "I hadn't suspected you of being so primitive."

Walking homeward through the sweet summer dusk, Sheila was far from the listless, extinguished creature whom Alice North had described, however. Never in her life had such a tempest of emotion swept through her being. For she was face to face, at last, with life.

The first night of Ted's courtship returned to her now; she smelt the fragrance of climbing roses; she felt his head again upon her breast--the indescribable first touch of love that is unlike all others!--she heard a voice deep within her exulting: "_This_ is _life_!" Ah, how ignorant she had been--how pitifully innocent! To have thought _that_ life!

For life was a thing that laid brutal, compelling hands upon you; that destroyed you and created you again; that rent you with unspeakable pangs, with unimaginable terrors, with frantic and powerless rebellions. It was not joy; it was not peace; it was not fulfillment.

It was a _force_. Merciless, implacable, irresistible, it seized upon you and _used_ you. For that you were put into the world; for that you dreamed and hoped and struggled--for that moment out of an eternity, that moment of _use_!

As she hurried onward, stumbling now and then with a clumsiness alien to her, the sense of lying helpless in the grasp of this force almost drove her to cry out. More than once she lifted her hands to her mouth, and even then little shuddering murmurs broke from her.

Helpless? Oh, yes! yes! For that had come to her from which there was no escape. She was trapped. She, too, was to be put to use. Her own work must make way for Nature's. She saw that now.

Her own work must make way. For Alice North herself had said that one could not serve art and Nature, too--and Nature had exacted service of her. She had been strong enough to defy Ted's tyranny; but, after all, she could not defeat Nature's. Her work must make way.

She let herself noiselessly into the house. From the kitchen floated the sounds of the cook's evening activities, but otherwise the place was silent, and Ted's hat was not on its accustomed hook in the little hall. She could be alone a while.

She stole up the stairs to her bedroom, meaning to lie down in the quiet darkness, but once there, a panic a.s.sailed her, a senseless fear of the dim corners, the distorted shadows. Besides, she wanted to see herself; she wanted to see if Ted, promising her beautiful things from motherhood the night before, if Mrs. North, warning her against it to-day, had known that she--that she was going to have a child.

She turned on the lights and stood in their full glare before her mirror. Searchingly she inspected herself--the slender figure that was as yet only delicately rounded, the cheek that showed just a softer curve and bloom, the eyes----

And then she caught her breath in a sharp sob and leaned nearer to her reflection. What was it--who was it--that she saw in her eyes?

For something--some one--looked back at her that had not looked back at her before; something--some one--ineffably yearning, poignantly tender--looked back at her with the gaze of a mystery--of a miracle.

It was as if, within herself, she beheld another self; and this other self was reconciled to life, was in harmony with its divine purpose.

Strangely enough, at that moment, her childhood's fancy of another self recurred to her.

"Other-Sheila," she whispered, "Other-Sheila, is it _you_?"

While she leaned thus, waiting, perhaps, for the answer of that reflected self, she saw that Ted had opened the door behind her. For an instant their eyes met in the mirror, and with that gaze Sheila's heart suddenly fled home to him. He was the father of her child!

"Oh," she cried, turning to him with outstretched, shaking hands and quivering face, "Oh, tell it to me again! I _want_ to believe it!

_Tell me again that motherhood is the greatest thing!_"

CHAPTER IX

In that hour when Sheila, flinging herself into his arms, cried out to Ted, "Tell me again that motherhood is the greatest thing. I want to believe it!" she struck a high note that, during the succeeding days and weeks and months, she could not always sustain. And yet, from the moment when she attempted to reconcile her will to Nature's, she did begin to perceive that her sacrifice would have its recompense.

Perhaps she perceived it the more clearly because it was given to her to see what motherhood meant to other women. For she was enough like the rest of humanity to value what others held precious.

On the day after her interview with Mrs. North, Sheila went to confide her expectation of maternity to her grandmother. She found Mrs.

Caldwell in her sitting-room, a peaceful, lonely figure, lifted, at last, above the stress and surge of life--and above all its sweet hazards, its young delight. She turned a pleased face to Sheila: "Dear! Ah, what would I do without my child?"

At the words, Sheila's news rushed to her lips: "Grandmother--grandmother--_I_ am going to have a child!" And then she was on her knees, and her face was hidden against Mrs. Caldwell's breast.

There was an instant of silence. Then: "How happy you and Ted must be!" murmured Mrs. Caldwell, "how happy!" And something in her tone touched Sheila more nearly than even her close-clinging arms, something that was at once joy for Sheila's joy and a measureless regret for herself. Suddenly the girl, trembling in the fold of those gentle old arms, realized how far behind her grandmother lay all youth's dear hopes and adventures. And she realized, too, that she herself held treasures in her hands--the treasures of youth and youth's warm love.

After all, even if she must lay her work aside, she was happy. Youth and love were hers--youth and love!

Nor was it only from her grandmother that she received confirmation of her fortunate estate. A few days later came Charlotte, to congratulate her upon Mrs. North's belief in her gift.