# Greater Love Hath No Man/Chapter 11

CHAPTER XI
TRAINING A VIRGINIA CREEPER
HAROLD MERTON'S first visit to the warden's house was but the prelude to many more. He drove often during the following two months from Berley Falls to the little penitentiary town; but on these occasions, while he never failed to ask Warden Rand about Varge, he did not ask again to see the other.
Acute enough where his own interests were involved, he realised that not only was nothing further to be gained by seeing Varge, but indeed much might be lost, or at least risked, in so doing. He had shown Varge that he did not mean to desert him, that he was not ungrateful, and now the less he obtruded himself upon the other's thoughts the better—it made it easier for Varge to keep his promise. Constant irritation produces a sore, and from the sore a poison might spread through the system that would undermine the strongest constitution. He understood that very well—Varge, too, had shown him that very clearly. It was best now to let Varge alone—Varge had given him the promise that he wanted—it was best now to let Varge alone.
His interest in Janet Rand had grown to passion; and he fostered that passion feverishly, as a man drinks whisky sometimes for two reasons—for the glass itself, and for the open door it offers through which he may pass and—forget. Janet Rand became to him ​literally an intoxication in which he sought to steep and lose himself.
As for her feelings toward him, with his complacent, all-possessing selfishness, he was well content. He had no reason to feel otherwise. They had grown to be great friends. His welcome was always cordial and unaffected—and Janet was always the same—laughing, happy, care-free. Shallow himself, incapable of depth, he saw her only through his own perspective, as one sees a picture which, though captivating the fancy by the scene or subject it depicts, loses its true beauty through the observer's inability to appreciate the art and breadth behind it which makes it live. Janet was dainty, trim, a divine little figure, merry, contagiously gay. He told himself he loved her—he promised himself that he would have her.
At times, at first, in her presence, the shadow of the grey walls about him would loom up suddenly with sickening mockery, and the sense of a ghastly irony at their nearness and his surroundings would sweep momentarily over him. But that had grown less and less; and the sight of a convict on the road, either a trusty or one under guard, no longer startled him. Familiarity, allayed fear, a blunted conscience, gave him of their common offspring—callousness.
It was the first breath of spring—in the hollows and the shady places snow still lingered; but the roads were drying, green was tingeing the faded colouring of the fields, and a fresh, sweet, vernal scent was in the air.
They were out on the wide veranda of the warden's house, and Merton was making pretence at helping Janet ​to arrange some runners on which was to be trained the Virginia creeper she had planted the year before.
He had been watching her with covert admiration; and more than once, as she stood on tiptoe, reaching up to fasten a piece of cord, their hands had met, as, deliberately seizing upon the excuse, he had taken the string from her. More graceful, more adorable, more to be possessed than ever she seemed. And why should he not possess her?—why should he still have to come to her here where these bald, ugly prison walls, even if they affected him less now, were nevertheless forever thrusting themselves sardonically before his eyes?—why should he wait any longer? The passion, the desire that was in him for her seemed this afternoon to be climaxing, to be greater, more uncontrollable than it had ever been before. The touch of her hand seemed to fire him with a mad impulse to grasp it fiercely, to draw and crush her to him. And she had felt it too, he told himself with elation. He had never seen her so sober, so quiet, so subdued, less inclined for conversation, less of gaiety about her.
She stopped suddenly in the midst of a plaintive little air she was humming.
"Does the spring ever affect you like that?" she asked abruptly.
Merton started as she spoke.
"Like what?" he inquired mechanically.
"I don't know just how to explain it," she said, smiling a little wistfully. "It should be the happiest time in the year, shouldn't it? Everything is so fresh and new and clean; it's like the beginning of life all over again—old life making a fresh start with the scars and ​smirches all wiped out, and new life budding into being. It should be the gladdest time of all the year, but somehow, sometimes, like to-day, it—it isn't for me."
"Shall I tell you why?" said Merton quickly, snatching at a lead that seemed opportunely opened for him. "It's that"—he pointed to the high, grey prison wall across the lawn.
She turned slowly and looked. A guard at the corner by the little turret stood motionless, carbine in hand; the dome of the main building, with the topmost row of barred windows just showing over the wall, loomed in the background; on the road, a mounted patrol was riding by.
"Perhaps," she said thoughtfully, facing him again. "Perhaps you are right. I had never thought of that. There is no spring for them, poor heavy-laden souls, no fresh start, no beginning all over again, is there?"
"Miss Rand—Janet," Merton burst out, stepping toward her, "this is no place for you—"
"No place for me?"—her eyes widened as she caught up his words. "Why, what can you mean by that? I've always lived here; I was born here. My mother came here when she was married, and—and died here. Dad has been warden here for twenty-five years."
"Yes"—Merton's voice was eager, passionate—"that is just it. You have been here too long. Your whole horizon has been those four walls; there's been nothing but prison atmosphere around you all your life. Janet, I want to take you away from here, out into the world, anywhere, where you will see new things and people and a different life—anywhere, so that we will ​be together. I love you, Janet—you know I love you. I loved you from the first day."
She had drawn back from him; the colour had gone a little from her cheeks, but her blue eyes, wider now, while troubled, were steady, full of calm self-possession.
"Oh, I am sorry for—for this, Mr. Merton," she said in a low voice.
Merton stared at her a moment a numbed, almost surprised look on his face. Tastefully dressed, of tall, good figure, his dark face not unhandsome, there was something almost appealing in him as he stood there.
"You mean," he said hoarsely, "you mean you do not love me?"
She shook her head.
"No," she said; "I do not love you. I do not want to hurt you. I am very, very sorry this has happened. I did not know that you—that you felt that way toward me; I—"
"But these months, two months, that I have been coming here," Merton interrupted quickly. "Surely you knew that—"
Again she shook her head.
"I did not think of it in that way," she answered. "We were friends, and dad and I were glad to have you come. I liked you for what brought you here first, and we were very sorry for the—for what had come into your life. We thought you liked us, that you found some relief in coming here and—and that was all. I do not love yon, Mr. Merton; indeed, I do not even know you."
"Know me?" repeated Merton, a tinge of affront creeping into his voice.
​"As a woman should know a man before she gives him her heart," she explained quietly. "I have seen you here only as our guest and—"
"Isn't that your own fault?" he broke in. "You have not tried to know me."
"No," she admitted, "I have not tried to know you—in that way."
"But you will," he said eagerly, "and love will come. Once away from here, together, in a new life, with wide interests, I will make you love me. I will work for you, slave for you, I will give you everything your heart can wish. I love you, Janet."
"I don't think you quite know what you are saying," she said gently. "Even if I wanted to go, if it were the dearest wish I had, I would be afraid to barter my love for the opportunity; it—it would not be a very sacred thing then, would it? But I have no wish to go away. My place is here. I have always been happy and contented here, and this is my life."
"Yes," said Merton, with sudden, impulsive bitterness—the calmness with which she spoke gave a finality to her words which maddened him. "Yes; and that is the trouble. It is your life and it has warped you. You are satisfied and contented with it because you cannot comprehend anything apart from that grey, grinning, hideous place. Your whole life, your thoughts, everything, are bound up with prison this and prison that. You won't marry me, because you say you don't know me. No!—you only know those striped-animals in there. So, at that rate, if you only marry whom you know, your love will have to find its object within those four walls, amongst—"
​"Mr. Merton! Let me go!"—he had caught her hand, and now she wrenched herself free. Her face was crimson with angry amazement. "Are you mad to speak to me like that! I—I think, please, you had better go."
For a moment they stood facing each other without speaking. Then Merton, as though awakening from a dream, brushed his hand across his eyes.
"Yes; I am mad," he said penitently. "I did not know what I was saying. But I cannot bear to lose you. I love you and I cannot give you up. I will not give you up. You do not love me now, but some day I can win your love. And I am right about this, Janet— Miss Rand, if you would only go away, even for a little while, you would see."
Janet's eyes were on the ground.
"It is quite useless to say anything more," she said monotonously. "I shall never love you."
"But you must!"—he was leaning toward her again earnestly. "I cannot give you up. I love you; you are everything to me. I cannot take that answer."
"You must take it," she answered dully, "because it is the only answer I can ever give you."
"You think so now," he said softly, "but 'ever' is so long a time. Perhaps you are right; perhaps you may never love me, and if that prove so, then I must accept it, but surely I am not to lose your friendship too"—Merton was pleading now. He had gone too far, been too sure of himself, had foolishly given vent to temper; contrition, an appeal to her sympathy was his only hope of reinstating himself in her eyes. "You are angry with me now. But see! I am sincerely, bitterly ​sorry for what I said. I was carried away. I was beside myself for the moment, but now I am sorry with all my heart. Won't you forgive me and forget it; and, at least, if we can be nothing more, let us still be the friends we were before this afternoon just as if nothing had happened?"
The pucker, in hesitant, tiny furrows, held for an instant on her forehead; then it cleared, and she looked up at him frankly, a tremulous little smile quivering on the sweet lips, as she held out to him the piece of string she had been twisting in her hands, one end of which was fastened near the roots of the Virginia creeper.
"Will you please tie this, Mr. Merton?—on that nail up there, the highest one—I can't reach it."