Pearl Buck - The Goddess Abides

“I want you to marry,” she repeated when he did not reply.

Instead of speaking, he pulled up abruptly in the overhanging shade of a huge ash tree. It was that moment in summer when growth is ended, and nature contemplates the annual death of winter. The air was languid and birds were silent.

“Now,” he said, “let’s have this out. I shall never love anyone as I love you.”

“I accept that,” she said, “and still I say I want you to marry.”

“Will you marry me, Edith?”

“No,” she said gently.

“Why not?”

Easy enough to say simply that she was too old, that when he was in his prime she would be an aged woman, but she did not reply simply. There was between them the communication of a love that had nothing to do with the accident of birth. They were two human beings who recognized their complete congeniality, their total trust, which were the components of love. Nevertheless, she had a responsibility of which she was becoming aware, at first dimly but now, day by day, more clearly. Nothing must impede the fulfillment of Jared’s whole development as a man, rich in talents and capable of rich growth, mental and spiritual. Yet he was a man, a human creature, with human needs. These needs she could not totally fulfill, and were they not so fulfilled, could the final development take place? She believed not. She could not live with him as an everyday wife. She could not give him children. Indeed she had no wish so to do. And yet, had she been able, could she also have given what she now gave him so joyously in companionship? She doubted that she could. He was no simple creature. The spectrum of his being was radiantly total and she comprehended the totality.

“I know I cannot marry you, Jared,” she said now.

“Are you afraid of what people will say?”

“I am not afraid,” she told him.

“Then why?”

“I know I must not.”

“Why, why?”

“I don’t know, but I must not, for your own sake.”

He was silent after this, and she was silent, waiting. Then he put the car into gear and drove on, until they reached the country inn, once an old mill. The great dark waterwheel still turned slowly, dripping the clear brook water as it had done for a century and more. The wood was covered with wet green moss, and under the shade of a huge overhanging sycamore tree, the water slipped smoothly over the stones and on its way to the river.

They stood side by side for moments, she and Jared, watching the turning wheel. Suddenly he seized her hand resolutely and drew it into the crook of his arm.

“Come along,” he said. “I’m starved.”

They entered the dining room together and in his imperious fashion he declined the table to which the waitress led them.

“That table by the window,” he ordered.

They sat down, he decided upon cocktails and entrée, while she waited in acquiescence, not caring what she ate and drank so long as she was with him. Of course she loved him. Yes, she was in love with him. No, she would never separate herself from him. One after the other these facts announced themselves in her being, but did not in the least or in total change her decision.

He leaned on his elbows and faced her, his eyes bleakly dark. “Now, then,” he said, “let’s have it out. Why do you insist upon my marrying someone?”

“Not someone,” she amended. “Just June Blaine. I like her. She’s honest. She wants to marry you.”

“I know that, but—”

“No buts! Of course the final decision is yours, but I want you to know that I — approve.”

He stared at her, puzzled. “I don’t understand you.”

She smiled and was silent.

He continued. “You know — you and I—”

She broke in. “I know.”

His eyes, so direct in their gaze, held her prisoner. She could not look away.

“Will I ever understand you?” he demanded.

“Perhaps it’s not — necessary.” Her voice faltered.

“Nevertheless, I’d like to,” he persisted.

“Not — necessary,” she repeated, her voice a whisper.

“Now you’re hiding somewhere,” he declared.

She shook her head. “Just being — myself.”

“I don’t like mysteries!”

“No mystery, Jared, perhaps intuition. I know you so well — better than I know myself, I think! I see so clearly what you are and what you will be. You will be one of the few great men of your generation — even of all generations, I think! Nothing must go wrong. You must have — everything. And June will be part of that everything. And I tell you, I like her! One doesn’t find honesty in women too often these days. It’s like finding a diamond among pebbles. You can’t pass it by. You must not. You must take it in your hand, examine it, test it, and if it’s true, keep it. That’s all I’m asking — no, I don’t ask, I suggest.”

“I won’t even talk about it,” he said bluntly. “Here are our cocktails. I drink to you!”

And he lifted his glass.

…Hours later, lying awake in her bed, she turned to the telephone on the table beside her and lifting the receiver, she dialed June, guessing that she, too, was sleepless, and heard her voice, instant and alert.

“Yes?”

“June, it is I, Edith Chardman.”

“Yes, Mrs. Chardman?”

“I want to tell you I am going away for a few weeks — maybe months.”

“Is there something you want me to do?” June’s voice spoke puzzlement.

“Only what your heart tells you, while I am gone.”

She waited. Was June perceptive enough, quick enough, understanding enough, to know what she was saying?

A moment of silence and the girl’s answer came, quiet and controlled.

“Thank you, Mrs. Chardman.”

“Good night, my dear,” she said and put the receiver back in its place.

…In the morning she rose late, rested after deep sleep. She had been able to sleep at once after the telephone call to June, as though she had fulfilled a duty, a purpose, and having fulfilled, had relaxed into peace. Now, the sun already nearing zenith, she got up and went to the window, as she always did in the morning, to judge the day, in this case a perfectly clear August day, the cloudless sky blue above the trees. It was a day to strengthen her soul with its beauty and she was strengthened. She had told June she was going away, but where would she go? Until the moment she had spoken the words she had had no intention of going away. Yet those very words had risen to her lips with conviction, as though they were the fruit of meditation and resolution. Where could she go? Standing irresolute before the open window, the morning breeze stirring the filmy folds of her long nightgown, and lifting her loosened hair, she suddenly thought of Edwin’s house in the mountains, two hundred miles away.

Perhaps it stood empty, perhaps his children were there, perhaps anything, but at least she would go and see. No one could find her there, and she had never told Jared of that love, nor indeed anyone. Then she would go and in the presence of Edwin’s memory, she would find herself again, not as she had been, for love had changed her, love for Jared, but as she was now to be until the end of her life. For there would never be another love. She had known them all, each love different from the other, each meaningful; each illuminating and valuable and to be cherished. Nor was it ended. Her love for Jared would continue for she had no wish to stop it. Let it grow, a source of comfort and inspiration to her, as hers had been for Edwin, but with even greater responsibility. She must assume that responsibility — it was now to make love a source of comfort and inspiration to Jared. The torch of love must be handed on from one heart to another, from one generation to the next, for without love life was meaningless and the spirit died. Yes, that was her duty and her delight, to pour her love into Jared’s life and see him grow. It was not a love affair. It was love.