Chapter CLIV: Section 4: He returned to the house, entering by the rear door. The baby

was lying in the room asleep, and out upon the piazza, he could hear Corydon and Mrs. Channing. Corydon was speaking, in her intense voice.

“The trouble with me,” she was saying, “is that I have no confidence! Other women are sure of themselves--they are self-contained, serene, satisfied.”

“But why shouldn’t you be that way?” Thus Mrs. Channing.

“I aim too high,” said Corydon. “I want too much. I defeat myself.”

“Yes,” said the other, “but why--”

“It’s been the circumstances of all my life! I’ve been defeated--thwarted--repressed! Everything drives me back into myself. There is nothing I can _do_--I can only endure and suffer and wait. So all the influences in my life are negative--

‘I was sick with the Nay of life--
With my lonely soul’s refrain!’”

“What is that you are quoting?” asked Mrs. Channing.

“It’s from a poem I wrote,” said Corydon.

“Oh, you write poetry?”

“I couldn’t say that,” was the reply. “I have no technique--I never studied anything about it.”

“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 attitude 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.